


Pas de Deux

by elizaham8957



Series: one step closer [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, I'd say I'm sorry but am I really?, Lydia is a ballerina AU, Stydia Big Bang, The answer is no I'm not, background scallison, this is so fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: “She looked weightless up there, like she was floating on the stage, staying suspended in the air too long for jumps and turning effortlessly on the ground, as if gravity wasn’t doing its best to slow her down. She was gorgeous, all her movements lithe and connected, perfectly flowing into one another, so that it seemed like she never stopped moving. Stiles had never been interested in ballet at all, but hell if he wasn’t interested in Lydia Martin— he could watch her do this all day.”Or, Lydia Martin is a ballerina slash genius, and Stiles doesn't think he's ever met anyone so incredible in his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, get ready, I'm gonna ramble. 
> 
> So, this is the first Stydia fic I've ever posted, and I'm so excited to share it all with you. I was debating signing up for the Big Bang for, like, a week, because I'd never really written any fic before and actually shared it with people, before my sister texted me and told me, "oh my god, just DO it." So really, this is all on her. 
> 
> I'm so grateful for all the wonderfully talented people that worked with me on this idea. Thank you to songof-light for the gorgeous title card! And check out the INCREDIBLE art created for this fic by stydiot [here](http://stydiot.tumblr.com/post/156867927439/aesthetic-for-pas-de-deux-written-by-the-talented) and hoalysmoaks [here](http://hoalysmoaks.tumblr.com/post/156913795934/my-work-for-the-stydia-big-bang-based-off)! You're all so talented and I'm amazed by how beautifully you were able to bring my fic to life. 
> 
> A huge thanks to my fantastic beta, bluehufflepuff96, because without her this fic would probably be a mess. I'm still impressed she was able to read through this monstrosity multiple times. (Surprise, I don't know how to shut up about Stiles and Lydia.) Also, a shoutout to my sister magicath17, who encouraged me to write this in the first place and only made fun of me a little bit for all the Star Wars references. 
> 
> I had so much fun writing this fic, and the Stydia Big Bang was such an amazing event to create something for. Thank you so much to everyone at Stydiacast and Stydiamonth for organizing such a wonderful project! I'm so grateful I was able to be a part of it with so many other incredible authors and artists. Check out all of their works in the collection! 
> 
> On a side note, can you believe Stydia is officially canon now? Because I still can't. I never though Jeff Davis would actually be this good to us. I'm stilesssolo on tumblr, if you would like to come gush with me over how in love Stiles and Lydia are. 
> 
> Thank you for reading; I hope you like it!

**A: Intrada**

In hindsight, it really was all Allison’s fault.

“ _Please_ ,” Allison begged, rooting through her closet. She picked out a top and held it out for Lydia to judge. Lydia looked up from the pointe shoe in her lap, frowning at the top.

“Don’t wear that. And for the last time, _no_.”

“Come on, Lydia, you haven’t been out in _weeks_.”

“Yes, because I have dance,” Lydia insisted, jabbing the needle back into the shoe in her lap, resewing the ribbon that had come undone in rehearsal today.

Allison rolled her eyes, picking out another top. Lydia didn’t even let her start her sentence before she cut her best friend off.

“I cannot go out, Allison, I have rehearsal in the morning,” Lydia told her. “And for the record, when I agreed to help you pick out an outfit, I wasn’t agreeing to letting you badger me into going out with you guys tonight.”

Allison threw the top she was holding onto her bed, and it landed in a crumpled heap in front of Lydia’s crossed legs. Lydia delicately picked it up, examining it, before shaking her head again.

“Come on, Allison, I know you have better clothes than this.”

Allison turned to Lydia, empty handed, pouting her lip and batting her big brown eyes at her best friend innocently.

“No,” Lydia said immediately, looking away from her friend.

“ _Please!”_ Allison exclaimed, flopping down on the bed next to Lydia. “You’re so stressed about dance, you _need_ a night out to relax.”

Lydia squinted at her friend, tilting her head. “Somehow, I can’t see myself getting promoted to second soloist if I show up for company rehearsal hung over.”

“Lydia,” Allison said, sitting up. “Please come out.” Her friend hesitated, before adding, “Scott’s gonna be there.”

Lydia laughed. “Oh, so _that’s_ why you want me to come out. So I can meet the boyfriend.”

Allison blushed, trying not to smile. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Not yet,” Lydia added. Allison had met this guy at a frat party a few weeks ago, and she was smitten, however much she tried to deny it. Lydia hadn’t seen her best friend so happy and giggly about a guy _ever_.

Lydia sighed. The rational part of her brain, the side that planned and practiced and generally won her internal arguments, knew that she shouldn’t go out. She had rehearsal tomorrow morning, and she had promised to help Malia study for her calc exam on Monday, and if she was ever going to be promoted from a corps dancer, she had to work _harder_.

But the other side of her brain agreed with Allison— one night wouldn’t kill her, and she was stressed— plus, the last time she’d actually gone out with Allison and Malia and Kira had probably been the first week of their semester, almost a month ago. And she _did_ want to meet Allison’s not-boyfriend. Considering how much Allison seemed to like him, Lydia felt it was within her best-friend duties to threaten this boy about breaking Allison’s heart.

Lydia sighed, and Allison hugged her knees, her smile widening. Lydia could see Allison knew she had won, and Lydia _hated_ it.

“Fine,” Lydia relented, and Allison practically squealed, jumping off the bed. “But I can’t stay out late, Allison. I have rehearsal at ten.”

“That’s fine,” Allison said, still grinning, rooting through her closet again. She pulled out another hanger.

“Mmm. Yes,” Lydia agreed, nodding. “That jacket is absolutely killer.”

“Kira and Malia are going to be here soon,” Allison told Lydia, pulling off her t-shirt and putting on a new top, before slipping into the jacket. “Go put on nice clothes.”

Lydia groaned indignantly, looking down at her leggings, but Allison just smiled at her.

“Thank you,” she said, her grin soft and her eyes sparkling. “I really want you to meet him.”

Lydia laughed again. “Allison, you are so in love with this boy.”

Allison scoffed, but she was blushing again. “I’ve known him three weeks. We’re not even dating.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Lydia insisted. Allison rolled her eyes, still smiling. A knock sounded at their apartment door, and Allison rushed to the doorway of her bedroom.

“That’s Malia and Kira,” she told her friend, walking into the hall. Allison leaned back into the room, her hands braced on the doorframe. “Get dressed.”

Lydia laughed, tossing her pointe shoes to the side, climbing gracefully off of her friend’s bed. “ _Fine._ ”

***

Stiles kept his eyes trained on the TV over the bar, even though he held no interest in the game they were broadcasting. He supposed he should have known, when he chose to go to school in Boston, that bars were ever only going to play Red Sox games— he had to stream all of the Mets games, and the wi-fi in their apartment _sucked_.

“Relax, would you?” Stiles heard Isaac say, and he turned his head away from the game, surveying his best friend. Generally when they went out, they would actually have fun, and Stiles would forget about the mountains of homework and responsibilities waiting for him back at their place, but Scott was so nervous tonight at the prospect of meeting Allison’s friends that he was sucking the fun out of it. Scott had met her three weeks ago at some frat party, and even though Stiles had only met her briefly (and been mildly intoxicated at the time), he felt like he knew this girl already, with the amount that Scott talked about her. His best friend was hopelessly in love.

“I’m nervous,” Scott admitted, and Isaac rolled his eyes, tugging at his scarf.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Stiles said, and Scott’s expression grew even more panicked. Isaac narrowed his eyes at his friend, probably for being less than helpful. Stiles ignored him, clapping Scott on the back.

“Relax, Scott,” Stiles instructed him. “It’s gonna be fine, okay? They’re just her friends.”

“Yeah, but I want them to like me,” Scott insisted, sipping his drink. Stiles made a face.

“Scott, everyone likes you,” Stiles told him. It was true. He was like a human puppy dog. “You’re like the hot girl everyone wants to be friends with.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “I’m the hot girl?”

Isaac laughed. “Yes, you are.”

“Scott!” someone called through the bar, and Scott’s head whipped around, a grin lighting up his face. Stiles recognized Allison, and the girl next to her, with the lighter hair— she went to Simmons, Stiles thought, and that was why Allison had been at that party in the first place. The other two girls Stiles didn’t recognize— one of them, with dark, straight hair, smiled back at them, but the other girl on Allison’s left—

She was _tiny_ , was Stiles’s first thought, shorter than Allison and the other two girls, despite the heels she was wearing. She didn’t have an ounce of fat on her anywhere— she looked like she’d weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet— but she wasn’t toothpick skinny; her arms and legs were muscular and defined, like an athlete. Her long, reddish hair— no, that wasn’t right, it was strawberry blonde— fell in waves to her elbows, framing her porcelain  face, and she looked away from her friends, briefly meeting Stiles’s gaze. Their eyes met, and Stiles felt like he’d been struck by lightning, or something.

“Hey, Allison,” Scott said, taking her hand and kissing her in greeting. The redheaded girl glanced at one of her friends, who raised her eyebrows and mouthed, “boyfriend.” Both girls tried not to laugh.

“Scott, this is Lydia,” Allison said, nodding at the redhead. Scott smiled at her, saying hi, and she grinned back.  

“We live together,” Allison added. “And then this is Kira and Malia. They live across the hall.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you all,” Scott said, and his grin was infectious— God, he was so in love with this girl. Scott never really had girlfriends; he’d only dated a couple girls in high school and their first two years of college, but Stiles had never seen him beam at a girl like he did at Allison.

“These are my friends, Isaac and Stiles,” Scott told the girls, nodding towards both him and Isaac. Stiles nodded in greeting.  

“Hi,” Isaac immediately said, grinning at them. “So you’re Allison,” he said, surveying the brunette. “It’s nice to have a name to put to a face. Scott won’t shut up about you.”

Scott elbowed his friend in the side, which Isaac just smirked at, but Stiles flat out laughed. The blonde-ish friend— Malia, he thought— met his eyes, smirking.

“Well, don’t worry, she talks about him just as much,” Lydia quipped, and now Allison turned bright red.

“Wow, maybe I _shouldn’t_ have asked you to come out tonight,” Allison said to her friend, despite the smile on her lips.

“ _Asked?”_ Lydia said to her friend, her face incredulous. “More like begged.”

“Do you guys want food?” Isaac asked. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“Sure,” Allison said, pulling Scott over to an empty booth, their hands still linked. The rest of the group followed behind. Briefly, Lydia looked up and met his eyes, and Stiles froze again. Her eyes broke away from his, and she followed behind Allison to the other side of the bar. The way she moved was incredible— it looked like she was floating through air, and every movement she made was effortless and graceful. Her back was long and elegant, and she held her head like she was a princess, or something— Stiles had never seen anyone move like that. Isaac paused, giving Stiles a look.

“You coming?” he asked, smirking at his friend. Stiles shook his head, looking away from Lydia’s retreating back, trying to break himself out of whatever trance this girl had him in, before standing and grabbing his drink.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

***

This night definitely wasn’t going as Stiles had anticipated.

An hour and a half ago, Scott had been the one nervous to meet his not-girlfriend’s friends, but he and Stiles seemed to have swapped places— Scott had overcome any fears he’d had while they were eating, and Stiles, sitting across from Lydia, was reduced to a total nervous wreck.

Allison’s friends were nice— Kira seemed to be made of actual sunshine, as the girl couldn’t physically stop smiling, ever, and Malia was funny in a blunt, sarcastic way— but still, Stiles was hung up on Lydia. Actually sitting down and listening to her talk had Stiles even more blown away. She was witty, and funny, and smart as hell. She hadn’t said where she went to school, but she had mentioned calculus and physics, and Malia told them how she had to bribe Lydia into helping with her math homework on a nightly basis, and Lydia had immediately known what Isaac was talking about when he brought up what he’d just learned in one of his psych classes, before adding her own opinions, full of very long, fancy-sounding terms that Stiles didn’t understand in the slightest.

Their dinner long finished, Scott and Allison had moved to the dance floor, and they had their arms around each other, foreheads pressed together, despite the fast dance song playing. Isaac was at the bar next to Stiles, though he’d started hitting on the girl sitting next to him. Malia was on the dance floor too, where Kira had just joined her, while Lydia sat further down the bar, by herself, twirling the straw around in her almost empty glass.

Stiles glanced back at Isaac, who was infatuated with the blonde next to him, before looking back to Lydia. She wasn’t talking to anyone, just sitting there, and Stiles decided— screw it, he’d been staring at this girl in wonder all night, he could go talk to her, at least.

Downing the rest of his drink— hopefully that would keep him from getting completely tongue tied— he stood up and made his way down to her.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the empty stool next to her. She just barely glanced up from her drink, shrugging noncommittally.

Stiles slipped into the seat next to her, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Now, faced with the actual prospect of talking to her, he had no idea what to say.

“Do you want another drink?” he finally settled on, and she looked up, almost confused, her expression still stone cold.

“Pass,” she said, narrowing her eyes, and Stiles could see now, up close, that they were a startling shade of green.

Stiles tilted his head a little, confused at her icy rejection. Her glass was empty, they were at a bar— was it him? Had he done something, unknowingly, to make her this cold to him? He’d barely spoken to her all night.

“I’ve been watching you play with your empty glass for like, ten minutes,” Stiles countered, mentally hitting himself when she raised a perfect eyebrow at him— God, he’d unintentionally made it sound like he’d been doing nothing but watching her all night. Which, he had, but _she_ didn’t need to know that. “Let me get you a drink,” he said, hoping she’d overlook how borderline creepy he’d just sounded.

Lydia tilted her head, her eyes still narrow, her lips pulled into the tiniest smirk.

“Interesting tactic,” she said. Shrugging, she continued. “I’m gonna stick with no.”

Stiles looked at her, confused, before she decided to show him a little mercy. “I can’t drink anymore. Don’t want to be hungover tomorrow.”

“Ah,” Stiles said, nodding. “Understandable.” She looked tiny enough that two drinks would be all it took to get her drunk. “I probably shouldn’t have any more either,” He added, awkwardly trying to continue the conversation. “I have a ton of homework to get done tomorrow.”

“Saving it all for the last minute?” she questioned. He nodded, laughing.

“Do you go to Emmanuel too?” she asked, referring to Scott’s school. He shook his head.

“Nah, BU. I’m a criminal justice major.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Criminal justice?”

“Yeah,” he continued. This he could talk about. “My dad’s a cop. And I’ve always liked solving mysteries.” He paused, glancing back at her again. Her eyes were trained on his. It was slightly terrifying, knowing she was focusing on him. “What major are you?” he asked. She looked away, shaking her head.

“I’m not,” she said. “I mean— I’m not in school, like you guys.”

Stiles furrowed his brow in confusion. “You’re not a student? You were talking about math and stuff, though, while we were eating—”

She shrugged. “If I have time, I take classes in the summer at MIT, but I’m not a full time student.”

Jesus Christ, MIT? Stiles didn’t even know that they _offered_ summer programs. He bit his lip, weighing his next question in his mind and trying to decide if it was too prying, but she rolled her eyes before he could finish his internal debate.

“Just ask me the question you’re dying to ask,” she demanded, giving him a look. He mocked surprise, pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“I— I’m not dying to ask anything. No questions here,” he insisted. She gave him another look.

“I can see it on your face,” she informed him, raising her eyebrows.

“Maybe my face just has a— naturally interrogatory expression,” he suggested, but she just rolled her eyes again, answering the question he hadn’t even gotten to ask.

“I only take classes part time because I have a full time job,” she told him, twirling her straw around her empty glass again. “I’m a dancer with Boston Ballet. I’m going to eventually get my degree, but I can only work on it in the summer, during the off season.”

Everything clicked then, learning she was a ballerina— how tiny she was, but also how muscular; the way she seemed to float around the bar, ever graceful and poised; the way her neck and limbs seemed longer and more elegant; the way she held herself, almost like a queen.

“Ohh,” Stiles said, grinning. “That’s so cool. I’ve never met a prima ballerina before.”

She raised her eyebrows at him again, _almost_ smiling. “I’m not a prima ballerina. I’m just a corps dancer.”

“A what?” he asked, blinking in confusion. She rolled her eyes at him, like he was an idiot, though he wasn’t sure how on earth he was supposed to know what that meant.

“I’m an ensemble member, basically,” she said. “I dance all the group parts. I don’t really get any big solos.”

“Still,” Stiles said. “That’s incredible, that you’re a ballerina, and you’re studying— what are you studying?”

“Physics and applied mathematics. Mostly high-level calculus.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Jesus. You must be smart as hell.”

She smirked at him. “Smart enough to notice you’ve been looking at me all night like a lovesick puppy,” she said primly, and Stiles’s jaw almost dropped. His cheeks were probably bright red. God, was it that obvious that he was into her?

“Yes, it’s that obvious,” she informed him cheekily, looking down and waking up the phone sitting in front of her on the bar. The time blinked back at her in bright text; almost eleven. Her background was a photo of her and Allison hugging, with Lydia in an elaborate tutu, a bouquet of flowers squished between the two girls.

Lydia sighed, standing up. “I should probably go,” she said. “I have dance in the morning.” She glanced over at Allison, who was still wrapped around Scott. “And I don’t think Allison will really miss me.”

“You’re leaving by yourself?” he asked. It was dark out, and Boston was a relatively safe city, and they were in a nicer part of it, but still.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ve lived in this city since I was twelve. I _think_ I can handle taking the T by myself.”

Stiles just stared at her, unsure of what to say. Jesus, he’d known this girl all of four hours, and he was pretty sure he was already in love with her.

“Bye, Stiles,” she said, giving him one last almost-smile, mostly-smirk, before walking over to her friends, probably to tell them she was leaving. He watched her leave the bar, still looking like she was floating on air, and he might have imagined it, but it almost seemed like she put a little extra sway in her hips. Maybe he was hallucinating. How had he somehow become so infatuated with this girl he barely knew? He’d spoken to her maybe for ten minutes, and already, he just wanted to see her again.

Stiles glanced down the bar. Isaac was still all wrapped up in that blonde. He turned back towards the bartender, flagging him down.

If he had any hope of forgetting about Lydia, he was going to need another drink.

***

Lydia’s alarm woke her up at 7:00, same as always.

She’d heard Allison (and Scott) come in late last night, so she did her best to tiptoe around the apartment. Half an hour later, she was ready for rehearsal— leotard and tights on, leggings and a loose sweater over her dance clothes for the commute, legwarmers and pointe shoes in her bag. She hummed the music from _Le Corsaire_ while she put her hair up in a tight bun.

She typically got ready by herself on weekends— Allison had early morning classes at Northeastern during the week, so Lydia would make coffee, and Allison would make breakfast, but on the weekends, Allison would sleep in, so Lydia was on her own.

Bearing that in mind, she almost screamed when she walked into their living room and saw a _person_ on their couch.

Apparently her stifled scream was louder than she hoped, because the person on their couch jerked awake— flailing limbs, messy chestnut hair, in a rumpled flannel and cocooned in their throw blanket— it was Scott’s friend from the bar last night.

 _“Stiles?”_ she said in disbelief, squinting at the sleep-ruffled guy— he rubbed his eyes dazedly, blinking back at her.

“Lydia,” he said, sitting up on the couch. He smiled bashfully, but she continued scowling at him.

“What the hell are you _doing_ here?” she demanded in hushed tones, trying not to wake up Allison.

“I, uh,” he said, running a hand through his hair, making it even more incredibly messy. “Well, Scott’s here,” he said, as if that were an explanation.

“Yeah, I’m aware of that,” she informed him. “I have ears.”  

“Well, he didn’t trust me to get home by myself last night, because I was— mildly inebriated,” he said, and it sounded to Lydia like he was trying to make “I was too drunk to be left alone” sound nice.

He winced, clutching at his forehead, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Only _mildly_ inebriated?”

He gave her an apologetic look. “Do you have Advil?”

“Yeah,” she said, retreating into the adjoined kitchen. Stiles untangled himself from the couch blanket, quietly padding behind her.

Lydia rummaged through the junk drawer in the kitchen, finally coming up with a half-full bottle of Advil. She filled him a glass of water, passing that and the pills to him, before turning to her breakfast.

“Thanks,” Stiles said as she turned on the Keurig. She grabbed the container of eggs out of the fridge, along with the spinach and the cheese, and threw a piece of multigrain bread in the toaster while the pan heated up.

Stiles hovered by the tiny kitchen island, fiddling with his hands. He kind of looked like hell, but Lydia thought he was somewhat endearing, all sleep-rumpled and dazed.

“Want some coffee?” she offered, pulling her steaming mug out from under the machine and putting a clean one in its place; before he could answer, she switched out the k-cup for a new one and hit the brew button.

“Thank you,” Stiles said. She just smirked, pouring the beaten eggs for her omelet over the spinach in the pan.

“Do you always get up this early?” Stiles questioned, glancing warily at the digital clock on the stove. His coffee finished brewing, and Lydia deposited it in front of him, before going back for the sugar bowl and milk from the fridge.

Lydia slid both across the counter to him, raising an eyebrow coolly. “Do you always ask this many questions of the person making you coffee when you’re stuck in a stranger’s apartment and horribly hung over?”

He just blinked at her, pausing halfway through pouring an almost excessive amount of milk and sugar in his mug, before replying, “You know, my head is killing me right now. Maybe you could not crucify me with smartass comments at—” he squinted at the clock— “seven thirty in the morning?”

Lydia moved back over to the stove, flipping her omelet. “Maybe you should have considered that before you fell asleep on my couch.”

When he didn’t say anything, Lydia turned away from the stove. “What, no sarcastic comebacks now?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and smirking at him.

He shook his head. “Sorry, Scott never has comebacks ready for when I say dumb things to him. I generally have more time that this to prepare.”

Stiles drank his coffee in silence as Lydia finished cooking her breakfast. She slid her omelet onto a plate, grabbing her toast too, and put her plate across from Stiles, standing opposite him at the island. He had slipped into one of the stools, and with her standing, she was almost level with his eyes.

Lydia would have been perfectly content to eat in silence, but Stiles seemed physically incapable of restraining himself from speaking to her— even with what must have been a killer headache. She would have been annoyed, but Stiles asked her about her summer classes, and when she talked about them, he _listened_. They chatted comfortably as Lydia finished her breakfast— she told him about projects she’d done, things she’d learned, and he just kept nodding, agreeing, his eyes always on hers. She was halfway through explaining what she had learned in the differential equations class she had just taken when she stopped, surveying him. He looked confused as to why she’d abruptly broke off.

“Do you have any idea what I’m even talking about?” she asked. He shook his head.

“Not a clue.”

She narrowed her eyes, looking at him suspiciously. “Then why are you listening to me?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re so passionate about it.” He gave her a little smile. “You really love math, don’t you?”

Lydia looked at him, with his hair sticking up in eight different directions, his amber eyes still glazed a little, and she could see him better now than at that bar last night, in the soft light of her kitchen— his eyes almost had flecks of gold in them, and a smattering of moles dotted his cheek— this boy was not at all what she had expected, when he’d sat down next to her yesterday night at that bar and tried to buy her a drink. Lydia didn’t know him much, and didn’t really have much to base off of— just his snarky interactions with his friends last night, his determination to get her to talk to him— but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d met a guy like him, who seemed content to just listen to her speak. He looked back at her now, something unidentifiable in his amber eyes, and Lydia looked down, startled, because she felt like he could somehow see into her, past her hard outer shell, with those eyes.

On the counter, her phone buzzed, alerting her that it was eight and she had to leave. She looked down, clearing her throat.

“I have to go,” she told Stiles. “Gotta catch the T.” Knowing the MBTA, it could be five minutes or forty five minutes before a train showed up.

Stiles nodded, finishing his cup of coffee off as she picked up her dishes, putting them in the dishwasher neatly, briefly turning back to Stiles. “I’ll see you later, I guess,” she said, picking up her bag from the floor, slinging the strap over her shoulder. He gave her a slight smile.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said, and she nodded, before heading out the door.

The air outside was cool and crisp, exclusive to that sweet span of three or four weeks when summer was over but before the chill of New England winters truly set in, and the weak morning sunlight shone off the buildings. Lydia walked to the T station, her hand on the strap of her bag, her brain going at a mile a minute.

She couldn’t get those whiskey eyes out of her head, the way they’d looked at her with such interest, such focus. She was fairly certain she had never met a guy like Stiles before; she couldn’t even think of the last time someone had listened to her speak at length with no other expectations, just to hear her talk. Just because she loved what she was telling them about.

Quietly, that other part of her brain— the smaller, irrational part that agreed with her heart more often than not— hoped that she’d see him again.

***

It had been two weeks since Stiles had seen Lydia, and, at the risk of sounding very dramatic, it was torturous.

Scott, who was officially dating Allison now, (“ _Officially_ ,” Stiles had ribbed. “You two have been officially infatuated with each other since you met.”) seemed very indifferent to his friend’s agony. Granted, his less-than-interested reaction was probably a consequence of the fact that Scott seemed to be in an eternal state of bliss, and others’ problems didn’t seem to really faze him. For instance, now— Stiles was trying to talk to his best friend, and Scott couldn’t stop looking at his phone, grinning at it like it was Allison herself.

“Scott!” Stiles almost-snapped, trying to catch his friend’s attention. Scott looked up from his phone, dazed, a smile still stretched onto his face.

“Sorry,” he apologized, but he didn’t seem sorry at all. “It’s—”

“Allison,” Stiles finished for him, nodding and fixing his friend with a withering look.

“What’s up?” Scott asked his friend, and Stiles felt almost stupid suddenly, pining over this girl he’d spoken to for maybe a collective twenty minutes. He almost let it go— but even in his honeymoon daze, Scott still knew his best friend almost as well as he knew himself.

“Let me guess,” Scott said, smirking. “Lydia.”

Stiles groaned, leaning back on the couch. Across the room, sprawled on the other couch, Scott grinned wickedly.

“If you like her so much, why don’t you just ask her out?” Scott inquired. Stiles let out a huff of laughter.

“Yeah, that’s a really good way to make a fool of myself,” Stiles snorted. “And I’m pretty sure she already thinks I’m an idiot, so.”

Scott shrugged. “She might kind of have a point.”

Stiles’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “Scott!” he complained. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m on everyone’s side,” Scott insisted, and sometimes Stiles really hated that about his best friend: his full-fledged optimism, his determination to give everyone a fair chance, to stand up for everything and defend everyone he knew; his fearless belief that the world was more good than it was bad, and his ability to see the good in absolutely everything. As a much more cynical person, Stiles balanced Scott out that way— maybe that’s why they had been friends for as long as they had. And Stiles loved his best friend, was awed by his optimistic viewpoint of the world, but sometimes, he really just needed Scott to agree with him.

Scott’s phone chirped again, and he automatically looked down. Stiles dropped his head backwards onto the armrest, cursing the universe for making him fall for the most perfect girl on the planet, who was of course completely and unattainably out of his league.

“Well, it’s your lucky day,” Scott informed Stiles, looking back up from his phone. “Allison just invited us over tonight.”

 _"Us?”_ Stiles asked, scrambling up. He was going to see Lydia _tonight?_ Oh god, he wasn’t mentally prepared for this.

“Yeah,” Scott replied, still looking at his phone. “Kira and Malia are coming over too for a movie. She says you’re welcome to join.”

Stiles thought of the mountains of homework he’d been planning on doing tonight, thought of the terrifying reality of seeing Lydia again, considered for approximately a second, and made up his mind.

“I’m in.”

Scott grinned.

***

Two hours later they were knocking at the girls’ apartment door. Stiles bounced on his toes nervously, simultaneously willing the door to fling open and also stay shut forever.

Scott laughed at him. “Relax,” he told him. “Lydia’s not even here yet.”

“Wha— how do you know that?” Stiles demanded, taken aback.

Scott shrugged. “Allison told me.”

Stiles squinted at his best friend, and it took him about four seconds to realize that if Allison had told Scott that, it meant Scott had told Allison about his feelings for her best friend.

“Scott, you did _not_ tell Allison,” Stiles pleaded, already knowing what Scott was going to say.

“Stiles, you can’t stop talking about her,” Scott reasoned. _“Derek_ probably knows how you feel at this point.” Derek was the grumpy grad student that lived next door to them, and the only time they ever saw him was when he would knock on their door, his face drawn up in a permanent scowl, and rudely inform them that they were being too loud, and ask (demand) that they shut the hell up (direct quote).

Stiles opened his mouth to fire back, but the door swung open at that second, revealing Allison, and Stiles knew it was no use trying to get anything out of Scott for the rest of the night.

“Hey!” Allison said in greeting, grinning widely at both of them. “Come on in! The pizza just got here.”

They followed Allison into the apartment, which was much better lit than the last time he had been here. It looked the same, physically— the strangely-comfortable couch across from the television, the worn throw blanket slung over the top, the adjoined kitchen, only separated from the rest of the space by the tiny island— even now, in the warm glow of the ceiling lights, with the steaming boxes of pizza on the scuffed counters, the only thing Stiles could see was the weak morning sunshine streaming through the tiny window, the tendrils of steam rising from the freshly brewed coffee clutched between his hands, the tiny strawberry blonde floating around the kitchen, making herself breakfast and snarking at him. That morning was frozen in perfect detail in Stiles’s head; if he thought about it he could smell the coffee, hear the sizzling omelet on the stove— and the way Lydia looked at him, when she asked why he was still listening to her talk when he had no idea what she was saying— he’d told her the truth, and he’d meant it: her passion was entrancing, and how could he have _stopped_ listening? He’d told her that, and she had seemed to freeze, like she’d never heard that before, and Stiles spent every waking moment trying to commit to memory how she had looked in that moment— her eyebrows slightly raised, her cheeks a little flushed, every speck of gold in her green eyes visible— and she’d pushed her lips together in a thin line, like she was considering something, before the smallest of smiles had tugged at the corners of her mouth, and sitting there, even hungover and sleep deprived and in his day-old clothes, his brain foggy and his breath stale— if he could relive that moment for the rest of his life, stay frozen in that weakly-lit kitchen, in a world that seemed exclusively theirs, he would do anything. He’d sell his soul to see that look on her face every moment of every day.

Stiles vaguely heard a knock at the door, and Allison opened it, letting Malia and Kira in. Scott greeted his girlfriend’s friends, but Stiles was still in a trance, thinking of that morning two weeks ago. The look on her face when she realized he was actually listening. Stiles thought someone should tell that girl every day how incredible she was.

“Stiles,” Scott’s voice taunted, and his reverie was broken with a sharp elbow to the ribs. His friend was looking at him, half concerned, half amused.

“You okay?” Scott muttered to him, and Stiles nodded viciously. He did not need Allison and Lydia’s other friends seeing him spacing out at the mere thought of her. It was enough that Allison already knew Stiles had it bad for her best friend.

“Pizza, Scott? Stiles?” Kira offered, pulling one of the boxes open.

 _“Yes,”_ Malia said, grabbing two slices before anyone else could go near it. Allison handed the guys plates, and Scott grabbed pizza for the both of them. “Drinks are in the fridge,” Allison said, jerking her head towards it, and Stiles nodded, entering the kitchen and opening the door.

“Scotty, what do you want?” he called, but before Scott could answer, the apartment door swung open, and Lydia’s voice cut through the chatter, clear and melodic.

“Hey, sorry I’m late, everyone.”

Stiles turned around, and the moment he saw her, the whole world seemed to move in slow motion.

Her hair was up in a bun, a couple stray curls framing her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She was wearing almost exactly what she had been wearing two weeks ago at breakfast— leggings with an oversized sweater, a warm scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. Stiles was sure he was staring, but he couldn’t really focus— the whole room had gone out of focus, faded and fuzzy around the edges, with Lydia alone in perfect detail in the center of the doorway, the light of the entrance hall illuminating her from above, and her hair was almost golden.

Jesus Christ, he needed to get a grip. But looking at her now, smiling at Allison, he couldn’t help but think there was no saving him. He was too far gone.

“Stiles,” Scott’s voice echoed, and Stiles blinked, turning to see his best friend staring next to him.

“Wha— what?” Stiles said. His brain still felt foggy, like all the air had been sucked out of the apartment the moment she’d stepped inside.

“You’re letting all the cold air out,” Scott smirked gently, reaching past his dumbstruck best friend and grabbing drinks for both of them out of the fridge.

“How was rehearsal?” Allison asked Lydia, who had pulled her scarf off and hung it on the rack by the door.

“It was great,” Lydia said, her smile beautifully wide. Stiles had never seen her smile like that. She looked like she’d just been handed the world on a silver platter, and he wanted nothing more than to see her smile like that for the rest of time. “They want me to learn the Pas des Odalisque,” she said. “The one I was telling you about!”

“Oh my god, Lydia!” Allison said, her grin equally wide.

“Is that good?” Kira asked, turning away from the pizza and towards the girls. “I’m assuming that’s good.”

“It’s basically a pas de trois,” Lydia said.

“Yeah, still don’t know what that means,” Malia piped up. Lydia sighed.

“There are three of us dancing it. But there are a bunch of different sections of music, and I get one by myself. I have a _solo_.”

“That’s amazing, Lydia!” Kira said, grinning.

“Congratulations,” Malia added.

Lydia grinned back at her smiling friends, before noticing the pizza on the counter and Netflix queued up on the TV. She turned to look at Allison, and that’s when she noticed Scott and Stiles in the kitchen.

The moment their eyes met, Stiles could physically feel the air leaving his lungs.

“I invited Scott and Stiles too,” Allison told her friend in explanation. Lydia’s eyes were still on Stiles, and he was sure he must have turned bright red by then.

“Hi,” he said, waving awkwardly, and Lydia’s eyes drifted away from him, back to Allison.

“So what are we doing? Watching movies?” Lydia asked, and Allison nodded.

“Yeah, I thought a night in might be nice.”

She closed the pizza box, now that they had food, before heading into the living room and sitting on the couch. Scott practically shoved the pizza he was holding for Stiles into his friend’s hands, following Allison and sitting next to her. She grinned at him, entwining their free hands. Stiles huffed in laughter at his friend, and Lydia, across the island, caught his eye, laughing too. Stiles’s heart swelled, seeing how happy she looked, her beautiful smirk directed towards him.

“What should we watch?” Allison asked the group, grabbing the clicker as the rest of the group followed them into the living room. Scott shot his friend a stern warning glance.

“Stiles, don’t say—”

“Star Wars,” Stiles said anyway, staring his best friend back down, challenging.

“Ooh, yes!” Kira agreed, perching on the other end of the couch, Malia sitting down next to her. Stiles sat in the empty armchair next to Scott’s end of the couch, setting his drink on the end table next to his friend’s.

“He’s kidding,” Scott assured them. “Ignore him.”

“I’ve never seen Star Wars,” Lydia mused, sitting cross-legged in an armchair across the room. Stiles’s jaw dropped.

 _“You_ haven’t seen it either?” Stiles demanded. “What is wrong with you people? How have you not seen _Star Wars?_ It’s a classic!”

“Who else hasn’t seen it?” Lydia asked.

“Me,” Scott piped up.

“And it eats away at me every day,” Stiles said, shooting a look at his friend. Scott shrugged.

“Okay, Star Wars is like, seven movies, and it’s not on Netflix,” Allison said. “So we can rule that out. What are we actually going to watch?”

They settled on some action comedy, which seemed fairly decent, based on everyone’s laughter, but to which Stiles paid little to no attention. He tried to watch the movie, really, but being in the same room as Lydia was distracting. Every time something funny happened in the movie and she laughed, high and clear, when she took her hair out of her high bun, shaking her curls down her back, the way she sat in the armchair, legs drawn into herself and all curled up— just her existence in _general_ was distracting.

Stiles didn’t know how he made it through that movie and another one. By the time he and Scott let themselves into their apartment, late at night, Stiles’s head was still buzzing from being near her. Scott threw his keys on the counter, but Stiles just stood frozen in the doorway.

“Dude,” Stiles said, looking up at Scott, the magnitude of what he felt for this girl really, truly hitting him. “I— I’ve got it _bad_. _”_

Scott laughed. “Yeah, I know. I have eyes.”

“What does Stiles have?” Isaac asked, walking into the living room in his low-slung pajama pants, his coppery curls a mess.

“Stiles is in love with Lydia,” Scott informed him. Stiles groaned.

Isaac frowned. “Lydia’s the little redhead, right?”

“Yeah,” Scott replied, at the same time that Stiles interjected, “Her hair’s actually strawberry blonde, if you really look.”

Isaac let out a gleeful bark of laughter. “Stiles, that girl is way out of your league.”

Stiles groaned, falling back onto their couch. “Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you.”

Based on the gleeful looks on his roommates’ faces, he had a sneaking suspicion that they weren’t too torn up about his situation.

***

Mondays were Lydia’s day off, but that didn’t mean that she slouched around all day.

Lydia restarted her music again, rolling through her feet to stretch out her toes. She had been working on the Pas des Odalisque choreography in their living room for the past hour or so, because if they gave her a solo, she was going to prove that she could do it absolutely perfectly.

Allison sat cross-legged on the couch, notes spread out all around her, a textbook open in her lap— her classes had gotten out a couple hours ago, and both girls were trying to get work in before they cooked dinner. Her phone kept buzzing, though, and Lydia liked Scott, but he was currently doing a very good job of singlehandedly making sure Allison wouldn’t pass her test tomorrow.

“Can I give Stiles your number?” Allison asked suddenly, and Lydia was so shocked that she fell out of her arabesque.

“What?” she asked, tugging an earbud out of her ear, pulling her phone out of the waistband of her leggings to pause the music. Allison hadn’t even looked up; she was staring at her cell phone, which was balanced in the crease of her textbook.

“Scott wants to know,” Allison explained. She glanced up at her friend, her expression slightly skeptical. “Apparently he has a math homework question he wants to ask you.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Okay, likely story.”

Allison laughed. “That’s what I thought.” She glanced at Lydia warily. “You know he has a crush on you, right?”

Lydia snorted, rising onto relevé again, arching her feet until they wouldn’t bend anymore. “Yeah, I’m completely aware. He’s not subtle.”

Allison laughed again. “What do you want me to tell Scott? I can say you’re busy rehearsing.”

Lydia shrugged, sinking back down to the floor. “No, you can give it to him.”

Allison looked back at her phone, evidently where Scott was waiting with bated breath to report back to his friend. “You sure?” she asked. “I don’t mind fending him off.”

“No, it’s fine,” Lydia insisted. “Who knows, maybe he really _does_ need help with math.”

***

Apparently Stiles _had_ actually required help with his calculus homework, because he texted her with photos of notes, practice problems, and in-depth questions, to which she’d happily responded. An hour later, she was still sitting on the floor, her legs splayed out on either side of her, so that she could at least _appear_ to be stretching. The notebook she’d used for scratch work when she was explaining the concepts to Stiles lay long forgotten next to her leg, and she propped her arms up with her elbows, her phone on the floor between them, displaying the conversation she was currently having with Stiles.

The thing was, he was fun to talk to. Over text, he wasn’t as nervous around her as in person, and he was smart, and witty, and clever. They were talking about his classes, mostly, although Stiles was prone to going off on unrelated tangents, which had her laughing at her phone. Allison arched a brow at her friend, looking up from her textbook.

“I didn’t know math was that funny,” Allison commented slyly. Lydia rolled her eyes, because she knew exactly what her friend was doing.

“We’re not talking about math anymore,” Lydia told her friend, reading Stiles’s latest text and giggling again. _Giggling_. What was happening to her?

Allison gave her another knowing look. Lydia huffed at her friend. “We’re just talking, okay? He’s funny.”

Allison gave her a prim smile. “Whatever you say. But I haven’t seen you smile at a guy’s text messages like that since—”

“Okay, I really don’t want to talk about Jackson right now,” Lydia cut in. She stood up, grabbing her phone. “Come on, let’s make dinner.”

Allison just grinned, looking like the cat that got the canary. Lydia ignored her friend, retreating into the kitchen instead.

An hour later, when they were done with dinner, Lydia unlocked her phone again, pulling up her previous conversation again, and began typing.

***

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott said, and only the urgency in his voice made Stiles actually look up from his phone— where he was casually having, like, an hour long conversation with _Lydia freaking Martin_.

“What, Scott?” Stiles asked, half exasperated, as his best friend walked out of their kitchen, a plate of leftovers in one hand, his cell phone in his other. Scott looked up from the screen, looking at his friend with an expression of pure shock and awe.

“ _What?”_ Stiles demanded. Scott gave his friend a wonderstruck grin.

“Allison says Lydia is _beaming_ at her phone.”

Stiles’s heart leapt into his throat. “ _What?”_

“She’s— this is a direct quote from Allison— ‘She’s sitting on our floor, smiling like an idiot, and she keeps _giggling_. Lydia doesn’t _giggle_ , Scott.’”

Stiles jumped to his feet, rationalizing afterwards that there was no real reason for that. It was probably all the adrenaline coursing through him. Having Lydia voluntarily talk to him for an hour had been a good sign, but— she was _beaming_ at her phone?

“ _What?!”_ Stiles yelped, his voice hoarse.

Scott laughed at him, as his phone beeped again, and he read the message, laughing.

“What? Is it Allison? What does it say?” Stiles demanded, his head still spinning.

“Allison says you have her blessing, but please be gentle with Lydia. Her last breakup was really messy,” Scott reported.

Stiles shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Wait, _what?_ Allison thinks I have a chance?”

“With Lydia?” Isaac said, walking out of the hall. “Still no way, man.”

“She’s _beaming_ at Stiles’s texts,” Scott reported. Isaac raised his eyebrows.

“Look! Photographic proof.” Scott turned his phone to the two of them, showing a snapchat from Allison. Lydia was sitting on the floor in leggings and a sports bra, her hair in a loose ponytail, falling over her shoulders and framing her face, her eyes trained on her phone and a smile tugging at her lips.

Stiles whooped; now _he_ was smiling like an idiot.

“I’d take it slow, man,” Scott suggested. “She just decided you’re tolerable. Don’t go doing anything rash.”

“That’s fine,” Stiles said rapidly. “I’ll wait. Jesus, I’d wait ten years.”

“That seems extreme,” Isaac commented, just as someone started pounding on their door. Isaac rolled his eyes, walking over and pulling it open. Derek stood on the other side, his face pulled in its ever-present scowl.

“Can you shut up?” he demanded. “I have work I’m trying to do.”

“Sorry,” Scott called apologetically. Derek didn’t respond, instead stalking back across the hall to his apartment.

“Lydia’s talking to me,” Stiles said out loud, still trying to wrap his head around it. “Lydia’s talking to me and she’s _enjoying_ talking to me. She thinks I’m funny.”

Scott grinned at his friend, nodding his head at Stiles’s phone, still clutched loosely in his hand. “Well, don’t stop now.”

Stiles looked back down at his phone, and there was a new message waiting from her. He sat back down on the couch, answering her back. He could still see her on her apartment floor, smiling at her phone, her gorgeous curls framing her face, her eyes full of light and happiness. And he caused that. He made her look like that. She was smiling at _him_.

Stiles felt like he was floating as he responded to her. As her reply came through, his heart hummed happily, a dumb grin plastered on his face now too.

He never wanted to stop talking to this girl.

***

Honestly, Lydia wasn’t even sure why she was surprised when Scott showed up at their door with Stiles in tow.

“Seriously, are you two attached at the hip?” Lydia demanded when she pulled the door open.

“Yes,” they replied in sync, walking into the apartment.

“One second, I’m almost ready!” Allison called down the hall. Lydia surveyed the two of them. Scott was dressed up fairly nice, but Stiles was just wearing normal clothes—darkish brown pants, paired with a t-shirt and a flannel over it. Lydia swore she had never met someone who owned as much plaid as Stiles did.

“Are you third wheeling on their date?” Lydia asked Stiles, and he shook his head vehemently, giving his friend a look.

“ _No_. No offense, Scott, but being around you and Allison is kind of nauseating sometimes.”

Scott shrugged. Clearly he was aware that he and his girlfriend were sickeningly sweet and adorable around each other.

“Okay, well,” Lydia said hesitantly, because if he wasn’t here to crash their date, then... “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you here, then?”

Scott rolled his eyes at his friend, smirking, but Stiles either didn’t see or didn’t care. He shrugged instead, shoving his hands in his back pockets. “I wanted to see you,” he admitted, and Lydia faltered. He had wanted to see _her?_  She hadn’t seen him in person in a week or so, but they had been texting fairly frequently since he had asked for her phone number. At the beginning, it had started under the pretense of homework questions, but for the past couple days they had been texting just to talk. Lydia liked their conversations— Stiles was funny, and witty, and it was easy to talk to him. He seemed incapable of ever shutting up, and would get lost on so many side stories and tangents of whatever they were originally talking about. It made her laugh. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, Allison was right— she hadn’t laughed at a guy’s text messages since before Jackson.

“Really?” she asked, still a little surprised that he would walk all the way to their apartment with Scott just to see her.

Stiles shrugged again. “Yeah. I mean, we’ve been texting anyway; I kinda wanted to talk in person.”

“Oh,” she replied dumbly, stuck momentarily in his eyes. They were so clear, so honest, and he was looking at her  like he didn’t know why she would be surprised that he walked twenty minutes in the cold to come see her. She opened her mouth to say something— she didn’t know what she wanted to say, how exactly to fit the words together, but she had to say _something_. Before she could get anything out, though, Allison emerged from her room, in a strapless silvery dress, a leather jacket over it, wearing heels that looked much more like something Lydia would wear than Allison.

“Sorry, I’m ready,” she said, and Scott just stood there, kind of thunderstruck, until Allison leaned over and kissed him in greeting.

“Since Scott seems incapable of speaking currently,” Lydia joked, still trying to shake the feeling that had come over her, staring into Stiles’s eyes, “you look fantastic.”

The spell over Scott broke, and he grinned, taking her hand. “Yes, you do,” he agreed. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, before turning to her roommate. “We’ll probably be late,” she said, which Lydia knew was code for _Scott is definitely coming back here tonight_ , and Lydia nodded.

“Have fun,” she told her friend, and Allison grinned before the two of them were out the door.

The door clicked shut, and then it was just her and Stiles.

“So,” Lydia asked, looking at him, but casually trying to avoid his eyes. She got stuck on his flannel instead. The shades of blue on the white background looked really good on him. “Did you have something specific you wanted to do, or did you just come over here?”

Stiles looked away, like he was considering her question. “You know, I really didn’t have a plan past 'come and see you.'"

Lydia laughed. “Well, that was poorly considered.” He smirked at her, shrugging.

“Did you already eat?” she asked, walking to the kitchen. Scott and Allison must have had early dinner reservations, because it was only about five.

“No,” Stiles replied, following her.

“I was going to make chicken for dinner,” she said. She’d gone to the Stop and Shop at the bottom of the hill after rehearsal today and picked up a pack of chicken and a box of rice pilaf for herself— she’d figured she’d have leftovers, but sharing with Stiles would be fine too.

“Sounds good to me,” he replied, pushing up his rolled sleeves. “Can I help?”

“Yeah,” Lydia replied. “Grab the olive oil and the Italian breadcrumbs, in that cabinet.” Stiles nodded, jumping into action.

Half an hour later, Lydia slid the golden-browned chicken out of the pan and onto a plate, placing it on the island. Stiles had grabbed them glasses of water halfway through cooking, and he’d managed to find the silverware with her direction. They ate dinner over comfortable conversation, and it marveled Lydia again how easy it was to talk to him, even in person. He was so engaged in whatever he was telling her, flailing his limbs in emphasis. She found herself covering her mouth with her hand more often than not, trying not to laugh with her mouth full.

By the time they had cleaned up all the dishes and wiped up the counters, it was still only six thirty. Scott and Allison probably still wouldn’t be back for hours.

“What do you wanna do?” Lydia asked Stiles. She was perfectly content to sit here and talk, but in case he wanted to go home—

“Okay, hear me out,” he said, and she rolled her eyes, because a sentence that started like that couldn’t end well. “I have been craving a cannoli, like, all week,” he told her, and she outright laughed. “Do you wanna go to Mike’s Pastry?” he asked, his eyes clear and imploring, a small grin lighting up his face. “Are pastries, like, something you can eat?”

She made a face. “Why wouldn’t I be able to eat a cannoli? I’m a ballerina, not a model.”

He grinned. “I don’t know! You’re so tiny. I didn’t know if that was a thing.”

“It is,” she replied primly. “I mean, I can’t get Mike’s every _day_ , but I think I can eat a cannoli tonight.”

“So you’re in?” he asked, grinning.

She rolled her eyes. “Sure, Stiles.”

He fist pumped awkwardly, and she stood up, heading for her room. “Let me get shoes.”

Lydia was thankful she’d changed into something nice after ballet today— an almost-white aqua skirt, dotted with little flowers, and a chiffon-y green blouse. She’d pulled her hair out of a bun and parted it down the middle, twisting the front sections back. Pulling on her tan booties, she deemed herself presentable, and slung on her green coat, grabbing her purse.

They chatted as they waited for the T, and when they got on the train, only pausing when the train took turns and the screaming brakes made it impossible to hear anything else. They got off at Haymarket, and the night air was cool on Lydia’s face as they walked down Hanover street.

“Hey!” Stiles said, pointing to an illuminated advertisement on the sidewalk. In it was a huge poster for _Le Corsaire_ , complete with the pictures of the pirates and everything. “That’s your ballet, right?”

“Unless there’s a different Boston Ballet you know of, then yes,” she quipped. He threw her a look.

“Wow, you’re hilarious.” She grinned cheekily. “So, what is it about?” Stiles asked. “I know it’s like, in general, pirates, but I’m assuming there’s a bigger plot than that.”

Lydia laughed. “It’s wild, actually. There’s this girl, Medora— she’s the female lead— and her adoptive father is a slave owner.”

“Oh, great,” Stiles said sarcastically.

“Right?” Lydia replied. “Anyway, this really wealthy guy, the Pasha, shows up in their village and sees Medora and tries to buy her from Medora’s dad, who initially says no, but then finally agrees when the Pasha offers him enough money—”

“Seriously?” Stiles yelped.

Lydia laughed. “Just wait, it gets better. So Medora gets sold to the Pasha, but Conrad, the pirate, who she just met and of course, instantly fell in love with—”

“Of course.”

“Rescues her and brings her, and the other slaves that Medora’s dad owns, off to their pirate island.”

“That _is_ wild.”

“And there’s a sleeping curse, and Conrad’s best friend gets really mad because Medora makes Conrad free the other slave girls they kidnapped, and there’s an entire pas de deux where Conrad is trying to get Medora to sleep with him, but she’s having none of it, and instead she steals his jacket and basically mocks him for an entire dance, and then Medora’s father kidnaps her and gives her to the Pasha, and all the corsaires disguise themselves as pilgrims to free her—”

“Jesus,” Stiles said. “Are all ballets this insane?”

Lydia shrugged. “Depends. This one’s pretty crazy. But the music is beautiful, and the choreography is really innovative.”

“When does it open?” Stiles asked. They were in the North End now, nestled among hundreds of little tiny restaurants, the smell of delicious Italian food wafting out of the open doors and onto the sidewalk.

“Next Saturday,” Lydia responded.

“Do you dance your solo part every night?” Stiles asked. She looked at him, surprised that he would remember that. She didn’t even think she’d directly told him about that.

“No,” she replied. “Not every night. They teach a lot of people a lot of different parts, and we all dance different ones every night.”

“Do you know when you’re dancing your solo?” he asked. She nodded.

“So far, it looks like the Tuesday and Thursday nights we’re open, and maybe the Saturday night of closing weekend. They still haven’t fully decided. But Allison’s going Tuesday night with Kira and Malia. The theater sells student rush tickets, so they’ll come see it on one of the less busy nights.”

“I was—” Stiles started, and he hesitated, looking at her. She glanced up at him, and she was getting trapped in his eyes again; she tried to look away, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

“What?” she asked, her eyes still locked on his.

“Could I come see it?” he asked.

That was _not_ what Lydia had been expecting.

She momentarily stopped on the sidewalk, staring right at his face, and Stiles turned to face her. “What?” he asked, almost self-consciously. Was it just the lighting, or the cold, or were his cheeks ever so slightly pink?

A disgruntled couple shoved past them, aggravated at their dead stop, so Lydia started walking again. She looked up at Stiles, puzzled. “You really would want to come and sit through a two hour ballet?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. You’re my friend. And I’d like to see you dance.”

Lydia’s heart was fluttering, and she tried to pass it off, but she found she really couldn’t. Stiles wanted to come to her show. He would sit still through a ballet for two hours— an impressive feat, because his attention span seemed to be about five minutes long— just to see her dance. She knew Allison and Malia and Kira went out of support for her, but they had known her for years, now. She’d known Stiles about a month, and he _still_ wanted to see her dance? She was so touched at the sentiment, she didn’t know what to say. Lydia was rarely at a loss for words, but this was another moment like earlier today, when he’d shown up simply because he wanted to _see_ her— she didn’t know how to respond to this, how to express the overwhelming sense of gratitude that he would do something like that for her.

“It’s such a big part of your life,” he responded again. “Would you mind if I came?”

“No,” she said, still thunderstruck. “No, I would really appreciate that.”

“Cool,” Stiles said, smiling at her, bobbing his head awkwardly, and he dropped the subject as they finally arrived in front of Mike’s. The line wasn’t the worst Lydia had ever seen— they had to wait on the sidewalk, not in the shop, but the line ended right outside of the heavy wooden doors.

They decided to get the cannolis to go, because the pastry shop was packed to the brim and there weren’t any empty tables. They ended up back on Lydia’s couch, munching on their cannolis— limoncello for Lydia, peanut butter for Stiles— and watching some crappy movie on TV. She didn’t really remember what it was actually about, just the fact that her and Stiles absolutely crucified the film with their comments, picking apart the plot holes and the shoddy writing, complaining about unnecessary scenes and way-too-obvious dramatic plot twists. By the time Scott and Allison stumbled through the door at eleven thirty, they were already onto another movie, the empty Mike’s box sitting forgotten on the coffee table.

“Hey,” Lydia said in greeting to her friend, and Allison grinned at her, greeting her in return, but based on the way Allison was tugging on Scott’s hand, Lydia could tell they really wanted to be alone.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna get going,” Stiles said, as Scott and Allison disappeared down the hall, her bedroom door slamming behind them. “Thanks for letting me hijack your Saturday night.”

She grinned. “No problem. I had fun.” He stood up, smiling at her.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he told her, heading for the door.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling slightly. “Let me know when you get back to your place.”

“What, scared I’m gonna get kidnapped by clowns? Or crazy men on horseback or something?” He grinned. Seriously, how did he _think_ of these things?

“Stiles Stilinski, if anyone were going to get kidnapped by a crazy man on horseback, it would be you,” she spat back, giving him a look.

He grinned cheekily. “You’re probably right.”

“Bye, Stiles,” she said, smirking softly at him. He grinned back, his eyes soft.

“Bye, Lydia,” he replied, slipping out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Lydia stood there for just a minute after he left, the night playing back on loop in her head, before she moved to turn off the TV and get rid of the Mike’s box on the table. She retreated to the bathroom, scrubbing off her makeup, and just as she climbed into her bed, her phone lit up with a text from Stiles: “Made it back. Talk to you later.” Lydia grinned, putting her phone on her bedside table, turning over underneath her blankets.

She fell asleep with the taste of limoncello cannolis on her tongue and the image of whiskey eyes trapped on loop in her mind.

***

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, pacing back and forth. “I feel like I should. But would that be weird? Would it be too much?” he turned to look at Scott, who was clearly not invested in the situation at all. Stiles snapped his fingers at his friend, trying to get his attention. “Scott! _Focus_ , for the love of god.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Stiles,” Scott replied, rifling through his closet.

“Should I get Lydia flowers or not?” Stiles demanded.

“Do you want me to ask Allison?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then you could have just said that.” Scott pulled his phone out of his pocket, presumably texting his girlfriend.

A knock sounded on the open door of Scott’s room, and Isaac stepped inside. “Why is Stiles pacing?” he demanded, giving his friend a look.

“We’re going to see Lydia’s show tonight, and he doesn’t know whether or not to get her flowers,” Scott explained.

“I don’t want to be too over the top, or anything, but it’s a _show_ ,” Stiles explain. “People get people in shows flowers, right? That’s a thing. But I also don’t want to freak her out, or anything. But—”

“Just get her the goddamn flowers, man,” Isaac said, rolling his eyes. Scott nodded, looking up from his phone.

“Allison agrees. She thinks it would be sweet if you got her flowers.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, tugging at his not-plaid button down. “I’m gonna run to the store and get some quick, before we have to leave.”

“Okay,” Scott said, still not interested. Isaac laughed, moving out of the doorway so Stiles could get by.

Stiles picked out a pink and white bouquet at the store, before hurrying back to their apartment. He and Scott were meeting the girls at the opera house, since they lived on different branches of the Green Line. The plan was to buy tickets when the box office opened for student rush tickets two hours before the show, get dinner, then head back to the theater.

As they climbed the stairs to the mezzanine at 7:10, Stiles couldn’t stop looking around. Allison, Kira, and Malia seemed unfazed— they had probably been here plenty of times— but Stiles had never been inside. Everything was red and gold and marble, with painted ceilings and crystal chandeliers and gilded columns and molding, carved vines and cherubs and fancy patterns covering every surface.

An usher led them to their seats, handing them programs as well. They filed in, Stiles being careful with his flowers, sitting down on the end next to Scott. Allison was in the middle, and she flipped the program open, pulling out the leaflet listing the order of numbers and dancers for each part.

“Okay, so in the first two acts, Lydia’s one of the slave girls, who she says are the ones in blue, and she’s one of the ones with a skirt,” Allison told them. “And then in the third act she’s in her trio, obviously, and she’s in a gold tutu.”

“Got it,” Kira said, nodding.

“Also, she recommends reading the synopsis in the program, because otherwise you’ll probably have no idea what’s going on.”

“Okay,” Scott said, flipping his program open and finding the synopsis page. Lydia had given Stiles a brief rundown, but he found the page too, reading the whole thing. By the time he was done, his eyebrows were raised in shock. Lydia was right, this ballet _was_ wild.

He turned the page, and there were all the company members, their headshots smiling brightly back at him. He flipped past the principal and soloist dancers, until he got to the page of company dancers, remembering that’s what she had told him she was. Sure enough, he found her photo, her hair neatly pulled back and her eyes shining, _Lydia Martin, Joined Company in 2013, Joined Boston Ballet II in 2011_ printed underneath in neat letters.

“What’s Boston Ballet II?” he asked Allison, showing her the program.

“It’s like having an apprenticeship with the company,” she explained. “Like, you’re in the company, and you’ll get to be in some shows, but it’s more of a trial and training period.”

The lights began dimming, and the audience hushed as the orchestra began. The curtain opened, revealing a pirate ship onstage, which then gave way to a village. Dancers flooded onstage, and Stiles kept his eye out for Lydia, but he didn’t see anyone in blue.

“There she is,” Allison whispered a few minutes later, pointing, as a group of dancers in gauzy, periwinkle blue costumes were led onstage in chains. Stiles found her immediately, thanks to her hair— she was the only redheaded ballerina there. Her costume sparkled as she moved onstage, and Stiles again was struck with how tiny she was— her cropped top and skirt displayed her bare midriff, and Stiles watched, mesmerized, as she floated gracefully across the stage with the other dancers. He was positive that whatever movements she was doing were incredibly hard, but she made them seem like nothing, like they were absolutely effortless. When their section was done he clapped the hardest, and Scott smirked at his friend in the dark theater.

Stiles almost missed all the dancing in the second part, because Lydia was onstage, sitting in the background with the other kidnapped slave girls, and he couldn’t stop watching her, despite the dancers actually performing. They got to the point Lydia had told him about, when Conrad the pirate clearly just wanted to sleep with Medora, but she danced jollily around the stage, flexing her muscles and doing her best pirate imitation, to the delight of the audience. And then it was the third act, and Lydia was walking onstage in a gold tutu, and Allison excitedly whispered, “Look, this is it!”

Lydia was right in the middle, her arms held gracefully above her tutu, her posture perfect, her chin tilted up like a queen— ever the image of beauty and grace. Their music started, and she danced with the other two girls, before they began entering and exiting by themselves, each dancing different parts together. It seemed like the three dancers each had different solo sections, and when Lydia walked back onstage to dance hers, Stiles held his breath.

She looked weightless up there, like she was floating on the stage, staying suspended in the air too long for jumps and turning effortlessly on the ground, as if gravity wasn’t doing its best to slow her down. She was gorgeous, all her movements lithe and connected, perfectly flowing into one another, so that it seemed like she never stopped moving. Stiles had never been interested in ballet at all, but hell if he wasn’t interested in Lydia Martin— he could watch her do this all day.

“She’s incredible,” he whispered to Allison, and the girl nodded back to her, smiling.

After a very long dance where it seemed like somehow five hundred dancers with pink tutus and flower arches crowded onstage, the curtain closed on the pirate ship once again. It reopened for curtain call, and when Lydia curtsied with the rest of the company, right up in the front row, he stood from his seat, whooping. Scott looked at his standing friend, confused, but Allison jerked him up by his elbow, making him stand too. All five of them hollered Lydia’s name loudly, and the curtain closed on the stage, the house lights coming back up.

“So where do we go meet her?” Scott asked, grabbing his coat. Stiles gingerly picked up the flowers from below his seat.

“Stage door,” Kira told them.

“It’s in the back of this super sketchy alley,” Malia added.

“Oh, good,” Stiles commented sarcastically, following the rest of them out of the row. All of a sudden, he was nervous again. What should he say? What was too much? What if she was freaked out by the flowers? She was literally the most amazing person he’d ever met— her dancing had just furthered his opinion— how could he possibly convey that to her, get her to see how incredible she was, without coming off as creepy?

Scott must have been able to sense his nerves, because he shot Stiles a good-natured look. “Stop overthinking, man,” he instructed. “Let’s go.”

So Stiles followed, clutching the flowers, trying to sort out his words as they walked.

***

Lydia usually didn’t have anyone waiting for her at stage door— Allison and Kira and Malia generally would come to each show maybe once, sometimes not at all for the ones with shorter runs, when schedules didn’t permit. One of their winter modern ballet shows nearly always fell on midterms week, and Lydia had long ago accepted that her friends would never be able to make it to those shows.

Still, knowing you had people waiting for you at stage door was a nice feeling; Lydia didn’t get a lot of praise at work— ballet was a field of constant criticism, never ending critique of her technique, her grace, her body, her performance— every single aspect of herself was constantly under fire, subject to other people’s opinions, so hearing people tell her she did well, even though they felt obligated to say that and had no professional opinion, really, still felt nice.

When Lydia came out of the stage door after changing from her tutu, packing up her shoes, and changing into normal clothes, she was surprised to see the crowd waiting for her. Allison, Kira and Malia always stuck around, but Lydia was surprised to see Stiles there too— she’d been surprised enough that he was coming in general; she hadn’t thought he’d want to wait to see her afterwards. And Scott was here too— she hadn’t even known he was coming to the show in the first place.

“Great job!” Allison squealed, pulling her friend into a hug. “You were incredible in your solo.”

“I almost fell out of my pirouette,” she confessed, but Kira shook her head, smiling.

“We couldn’t tell at all,” she assured Lydia.

“You were great,” Malia said as well. “I still find ballet boring, but your parts were really good.”

“Thanks,” Lydia said, laughing. She turned to the boys next— Stiles had a funny look on his face, like he was somewhat terrified.

“Thank you guys so much for coming,” she said, smiling gratefully.

“Of course,” Scott replied. “Awesome job.”

“Thanks,” she said, turning to look at Stiles, and she froze, meeting his eyes. He was looking at her like she was the universe, his eyes clear and adoring, his head tilted just the slightest bit to the side, his lips slightly parted, like she was just the most incredible thing he’d ever seen. She felt a blush stain her cheeks, creeping down her neck, and she looked down, breaking eye contact with him, because she knew if she didn’t look away now, she’d never be able to. And she really didn’t need Allison or anyone making assumptions.

“You were amazing,” Stiles said. He looked down, fumbling with something behind his back, before producing a gorgeous bouquet of pink and cream roses, dotted with other tiny flowers. “Seriously, incredible. Unreal. I don’t know why I keep saying more adjectives; clearly you know what I mean—”

“Are these for me?” Lydia cut him off softly, looking up and meeting his eyes again. The intensity and depth of emotion there should have scared her, but it didn’t— took her by surprise, sure, but she didn’t freak out. The way Stiles was looking at her was comforting and warm, like a worn flannel or a familiar hug.

“Uh, well— yeah,” he said, offering them to her, and Lydia could tell he was nervous, just by the fact that he hadn’t made a sarcastic comment.

“Wow,” she breathed. “They’re beautiful, Stiles— thank you.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Well, you were amazing, so.”

Lydia just looked at him, a smile tugging at her lips, because he was blowing her away. He came to her show, he got her flowers, told her she was amazing— when was the last time a guy had done that for her? Certainly Jackson had never, and the fact that Stiles thought of that, wanted to support her and congratulate her and compliment her tugged at her heart, leaving her feeling warm and tingly. She was sure she was blushing. She hoped Stiles couldn’t see, in the night air.

“We should get a picture!” Kira suggested, and before Lydia knew what was happening, Kira had handed her phone off to someone else waiting for a dancer, and they were all squished together, crowding in for a photo. Lydia found herself pressed between Stiles and Allison, and Stiles’s hand on her lower back was warm through her jacket, spanning over her whole waist, his fingers curling around her side protectively.

Lydia smiled for the camera and tried to ignore the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

***

“Seriously, Lydia, I don’t know how much longer I can put up with this.”

Lydia scoffed, glancing up from her stitching and rolling her eyes at her phone, where Stiles’s face grimaced back at her.

“Please,” she replied. “You couldn’t go two days without facetiming me.”

“My calculus homework couldn’t go two days without facetiming you,” he corrected. “I, on the other hand— I don’t know. This might be a deal breaker. I don’t think we can still be friends.”

“Why?” she demanded, laughing. “Because I’ve never seen Star Wars? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously!” he retorted, offended, and Lydia did admit, he looked fairly serious.

“You have been friends with Scott for approximately twenty years and _he’s_ never seen Star Wars,” she commented.

“Believe me, I have tried everything with him,” Stiles grumbled.

“I’m so sorry for you,” she replied sarcastically.

“You should be!” he said. “ _Rogue One_ comes out in 36 days, and I’m gonna have to go see it _alone_.”

“Well, what are you doing Monday?” she asked. Despite the fact that she and Stiles texted a lot, and that he facetimed her with math questions every other night, she hadn’t seen him in person in a few days, and she could use a distraction while sewing all her pointe shoes.

“I get out of class at 11:30. Why?”

“I have the day off, so why don’t you bring them over here and we can watch?”

His jaw dropped. “ _Seriously?”_

“Sure,” Lydia shrugged. “Young Harrison Ford? I’m in.”

“Okay, that’s not exactly the motivation I was looking for, but—”

“Do you want me to watch the movies or not?” Lydia asked, giving him a look.

“Nope, no, we’re watching it,” Stiles insisted. “I will be there as soon as class is out.”

***

Stiles arrived at their apartment at 11:32 on Monday, completely out of breath and backpack full of Star Wars movies. Lydia was surprised when she opened the door, because he lived a good twenty minute walk away and she had figured he wouldn’t be here until noon.

“Stiles,” she said, letting him in, and she tried to keep the accusatory tone in her voice to a minimum, but she couldn’t help it. “Did you leave class early to get over here?”

He blinked back at her, all innocent eyes and flushed cheeks, like he could do no wrong in the world. “No,” he said emphatically, but she didn’t believe him for a minute. There was no point in arguing, though; seeing as what’s done was done, she led him into the living room.

He stopped dead in the entrance, his eyes going wide at the scene in front of him.

“Woah,” he said, his eyes darting around, surveying Lydia’s setup. She’d made herself a nest of blankets on the couch— for whatever reason, the heating in the apartment had decided to stop working— and on the coffee table in front of her was needles, thread, pins, scissors— all possible sewing necessities. Long lengths of ribbons were draped over the arm of the couch, elastics piled on the table, and there were pointe shoes _everywhere_. She supposed, if you’d never seen their apartment during the months of November and December before, it could be a little jarring.

“What the _hell?”_ Stiles wondered out loud, turning to look at Lydia, who shrugged back at him.

“It’s Nutcracker season,” she explained. “I need to prep all my shoes.”

“ _All_ your shoes?” Stiles asked. “You don’t just have one pair?”

She flat out laughed at that. “ _No_. A pair of pointe shoes lasts twelve hours if you’re lucky. I go through multiple pairs a _week_.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, picking up one from the table, weighing it in his hand. He rapped the box of the shoe against his palm, making a face at her.

“These are rock solid,” he commented.

“Yeah, I need to stand on my toes on them,” Lydia replied. “And those are new. I haven’t broken them in yet.”

“Doesn’t that _hurt?”_

She shrugged. “When you first start. I’m used to it.”

Stiles just stood there, looking around at the room, his eyes darting over the almost twenty pairs of pointe shoes strewn around, in various stages of completion, his Star Wars movies completely forgotten.

“Are we doing this or not?” Lydia asked, slipping back into her cocoon of blankets on the couch, grabbing the pair of shoes she’d been working on when Stiles got here.

“Oh. Yes! Star Wars, yes,” he babbled, unzipping his backpack and taking out the DVDs. “Okay, so we have options,” he informed her, to which she just raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “We could do release order, which is generally how I watch them, or we could do chronological order— which I don’t recommend, because if _The Phantom Menace_ is the first Star Wars movie you ever see, you’ll never want to watch the other ones— or we could do machete order, which is decidedly more gut-wrenching—”

“Stiles, I trust your judgment,” she told him, smiling at him. He looked so excited. Was this how she looked when she talked about ballet?

“We’ll do release order,” Stiles said. “Start off with the original trilogy.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “DVD player clicker is right there, so start it up. I have pointe shoes to sew, and this will be a good distraction.”

Stiles paused, and he gave her a look of such disdain that she wondered what on earth she could have done.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re going to _sew your shoes_ while we watch _Star Wars?”_ Stiles demanded. “Lydia, you can’t— you have to _watch_ them!”

“Stiles,” she sighed, giving him a look. “I can sew these things in my sleep. I assure you I will be able to pay adequate attention to the movies, and if I miss anything, I have complete and utter faith in your in-depth knowledge of the Star Wars franchise and your ability to catch me up.”

He stood frozen for half a second, before letting his shoulders sag dramatically. “Fine,” he relented, putting in the first DVD, grabbing the clicker, and sitting next to her on the couch. “Why’s it freezing in here?” he asked, hitting play on the main menu.

“Heat’s broken, we think,” Lydia responded, peeling a blanket off the outside of her cocoon and handing it over. “Here.”

The screen turned black, the words “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away” shining back in vibrant blue letters. Then the music started, and the opening crawl followed, and even if she hadn’t seen Star Wars before, Lydia would have had to live under a rock to not recognize the iconic opening.

The movie was good— cheesy, and kind of campy, and featuring some truly _horrible_ special effects (Stiles informed her that most of the terrible CGI had been added into later additions, though for what reason other than “we have superior technology now” no one really knew) — but Lydia enjoyed it thoroughly. The music was beautiful, the plot was easy to invest in, and they were fun to watch. The characters were great, complex and heroic but still flawed, beautifully relatable, despite the fact that they were from a distant galaxy. It took Lydia all of five minutes to decide that Princess Leia was definitely her favorite character.

By the time Allison got home, they were halfway through _The Empire Strikes Back_ , and Lydia had ten of her nineteen pairs of pointe shoes sewn. Allison looked at them strangely, while on screen Han Solo flew the Millennium Falcon through a treacherous asteroid field.

“What’s going on?” Allison asked hesitantly, looking at the two of them, swaddled in blankets and working on pointe shoes, eyes glued to the television.

“We’re watching Star Wars,” Stiles informed her, delicately brushing the cut end of a satin ribbon with clear nail polish so it wouldn’t fray. She’d enlisted him to help with the easier steps at the beginning of this movie.

“And sewing pointe shoes,” Lydia added.

“Okay,” Allison said, giving Stiles and his nail polish a strange look. “Well, I’ll be in my room, studying.”

By the time Allison reemerged, they had gotten to _Return of the Jedi_ and Luke was deep in a lightsaber battle with Darth Vader. Lydia’s last few pairs of pointe shoes lay forgotten on the table— she’d needed a distraction during the never ending battle in the forest, but now, between the Emperor trying to seduce Luke to the dark side and the attack by the rebels on the Death Star, she was completely immersed.

“You guys want dinner?” Allison asked. “I’m really in the mood for pizza.”

“Sure,” Lydia answered. “If you’re getting Il Mondo’s, get either the pesto or alfredo one.”

“I like the pesto one,” Allison agreed. “Stiles?”

“I’m cool with anything,” he agreed.

“I’m gonna walk over there and order it,” she said. “Save the delivery fee.” She shrugged on her coat, grabbing her purse and leaving the apartment. By the time she was back, the end credits were rolling. Lydia cleared the coffee table of her sewing supplies and Stiles grabbed drinks, and they sat around the table, eating straight from the box. Lydia almost moaned at the steaming hot food— delicious and warm, it made this day even better.

Stiles’s phone went off, and he groaned as soon as he saw it, dramatically tipping his head back. Lydia swallowed her last bite before asking him, “What?”

“Scott,” he sighed, rolling his eyes, before giving Allison a pointed glare. “Can you tell your boyfriend to get his goddamn act together so we can book a flight? Maybe he’ll actually listen to you.”

Allison laughed. “I can try. No promises.”

“Where are you flying?” Lydia asked, grabbing another slice.

“Home,” Stiles said. “I mean, Beacon Hills. For Thanksgiving next week. Scott, Isaac and I always take the same flight home, but they won’t sit down with me and _book_ one.” He looked at her. “When are you going home?”

“I’m not,” she said. He gave her a look, confused. “I can’t,” she explained. “ _Nutcracker_ opens the day after Thanksgiving.”

“Oh,” he said. “Does your mom come up here?” her parents had been divorced since she was sixteen—about four years after they’d moved to Boston so Lydia could join the Boston Ballet School, and the same year she’d been invited to join Boston Ballet II, but since Lydia had moved in with Allison, her mom had gone back to California to teach. Stiles knew all this— they’d bonded over the fact that each of them only had one parent left present in their life.

“No,” Lydia told him. “She can never get enough time off work to fly out. She teaches at a high school, and they still have classes Wednesday. I’ll see her at Christmas.”

“So you’re gonna be all alone on Thanksgiving?” Stiles asked. Allison shook her head.

“No, I’m staying here. My dad’s in the middle of a really important weapons deal somewhere in France, and he won’t make it back in time.”

“We’ll get a mini turkey,” Lydia joked, sharing a look with her best friend.

They finished their pizza, and Allison went back to studying, Stiles following Lydia into the kitchen with dirty dishes.

“So, what did you think of the movies?” he asked, handing her glasses to put in the dishwasher.

“I really liked them,” she said truthfully. “They were good.” She looked up at him, and he had that look in his eyes again— the one so clear, so packed with raw emotion and affection and it should have _scared_ Lydia; she should have been spooked by how much this boy cared about her, how much feeling he held in a single gaze, but she couldn’t find the fear she expected. Stiles caring about her was warm, familiar, and it felt so comforting, knowing someone thought about her as much as Stiles did. Jackson had never cared about her that much— god, he’d gotten annoyed when her aspirations and career had gotten in the way of their relationship, and he had made sure Lydia was well aware that the messy breakup and all the problems it stemmed from were _all her fault_. All her fault. She had ruined it, ruined them, ruined everything. Those words had echoed in her head afterwards for weeks, feeding and adding to the sea of rejections that simmered right below her hard exterior—  but Stiles was different. Stiles listened to her. Stiles cared about her, looked at her like she’d hung the stars in the night sky, like she was the most important person to him. Lydia had never been the most important person to _anyone_ like that— not to her father, not to her dance company, not to Jackson. But Stiles looked at her like that— and she couldn’t find it in herself to feel afraid.

“So, next Monday?” she asked. “There are four more movies, right? I still have pointe shoes left to sew.”

He smiled widely. “Yeah. Next Monday.”

***

Lydia was exhausted after rehearsal.

It was their last day before _Nutcracker_ performances started— tomorrow was Thanksgiving, so they got the day off— and they had been worked to the bone today. Her joints were sore, her feet ached, her knees probably needed to be iced— all she wanted to do was lay on her bed and never move again.

She was so tired that she didn’t even notice what was happening in the kitchen until she was halfway in the apartment.

“What the hell?” Lydia gasped, because the kitchen was _packed_. Allison and Kira were at the counter, unpacking bags full of groceries, Scott and Isaac were rifling through a recipe book, Malia was taking out casserole dishes, and Stiles was holding a _turkey_.

“Aren’t all of you supposed to be on planes right now?” Lydia asked, eyes skimming over everyone but her roommate. “What are you all doing here?”

“It was Stiles’s idea,” Malia said, placing her casserole dish on the overcrowded countertop. Stiles turned red, looking away from Lydia.

“Stiles?” she questioned, and his gaze snapped back to her, trapping her with those amber eyes.

“We’re having Thanksgiving here,” he told her, and Lydia was sure her heart full on stopped. He shrugged, continuing. “We didn’t want you and Allison to be alone. You’re our friends; we care about you.” And Lydia could hear the underlying meaning of his words— _I_ care about you. Her heart swelled, full of love for every single person standing in this kitchen— her career had always made it difficult for her to have a normal life, make friends outside of her dance classes, but the group of people standing in their too small kitchen now, this pack of people unloading groceries and following recipes and cooking an entire meal and cancelling all of their plans for _her_ , so that _she_ wasn’t alone— the overwhelming rush of affection she felt for all of them put her at a loss for words. And Stiles, _Stiles_ — she wanted nothing more in the world than to throw her arms around him and never let go.

“Go change,” Malia told her, looking almost overwhelmed, snapping Lydia out of her spell. “We have _so_ much cooking to do.”

Lydia smiled, disappearing down the hall to shed her leotard and tights and prepare to cook a Thanksgiving dinner.

The boys stayed until almost nine or ten, preparing casseroles and side dishes and helping Kira shuffle things in and out of the oven. Isaac, surprisingly, could make really good pie, and he and Lydia worked on those, setting them aside to bake after the bread stuffing came out of the oven. By the time they were finished cooking, the smell filling the kitchen was intoxicating.

After Allison and Scott scrubbed the kitchen from top to bottom and all the pre-cooked dishes were stored in the fridge, wrapped up and ready to be warmed up in the oven the next day, the boys, Malia, and Kira left, with the promise to return in the morning. Allison was in charge of putting the turkey in the oven in the morning, and Lydia awoke at nine to the heavenly smell of a true Thanksgiving dinner— something she hadn’t had since she was at least fifteen, before she joined Boston Ballet and holiday season became synonymous with Nutcracker season. The boys showed up around eleven, and Malia and Kira came over from across the hall, and a day filled with delicious food, bursting at the seams with laughter and smiles and friendship, goofy stories told over scrumptious turkey, pie and eggnog with cinnamon, enough leftovers to feed an army— Lydia couldn’t think of anything to be more thankful for.

Scott said a joking grace over dessert, though his words on how grateful he was to have them all in his life were genuine. Lydia met Stiles’s eyes across the table, and for the first time since she’d met him, she was certain that her eyes reflected all the emotion evident in his.

It was like lightning had struck her or something, how quickly she realized, in that moment, that she could have feelings for Stiles. She felt like the earth should have shifted, fireworks exploded, something big and shattering for such a momentous realization, but nothing changed. Across the table, Stiles’s amber eyes stayed constant, just as his friendship, his sarcasm, his ridiculous math questions and late night texting conversations had become a constant fixture of her life, ever since he had sat down next to her in that bar and tried to buy her a drink. And the overwhelming magnitude of her realization didn’t crush her, like she had expected. It settled around her comfortably, because somehow this felt _right_.

After dessert they crowded into the living room, picking a movie out on Netflix, and Lydia couldn’t ignore the fluttering in her stomach that came from Stiles’s body being squished up next to hers on the sofa. He was warm and solid, and his flannel (this one was a dark red, presumably for autumn) was soft against her skin. The turkey made her drowsy, pulled at her consciousness, and when her head dropped onto Stiles’s shoulder halfway through the movie, she didn’t fight it. This somehow just felt right, her head on his shoulder, his flannel soft on her cheek, his heart beating in her ear. She breathed in his familiar scent, and right here, in this moment, Lydia felt like she was home.

Maybe she was. Somehow, without her noticing, this boy had become her home. Realizing that should have felt scary, monumental, nerve-wracking, but to Lydia, here, in the warm living room, their bodies pressed together, it somehow just felt incredibly natural.

Allison was definitely going to grill her later— ever since that first day Lydia had texted him for hours, Allison had been badgering Lydia to admit that she had feelings for him— but for now, she could revel in his warmth, his steady presence, and worry about the rest later.

Her eyes drooped shut, and she dozed off to the sound of Stiles’s heart, his rhythmic breathing echoing in her ear.

***

Tuesday night dinners had become somewhat of a tradition in the past few months.

It had started with just Scott coming over to see Allison, but then, of course, Stiles had started coming too— as Lydia often pointed out, he and Scott could not physically be separated from each other for more than a certain length of time— and Lydia was home from rehearsal by that time, and at one point Malia had come over for homework help and ended up staying for dinner— by December, everyone flocked to Allison and Lydia’s apartment on Tuesday nights.

Generally they headed over around six and ordered takeout— or cooked, if they were feeling ambitious. Stiles enjoyed their weekly hangouts— mostly because he got to see Lydia, though he wouldn’t admit that to anyone (except maybe Scott). Regardless, Nutcracker season had just started for Lydia, so Stiles had accepted the fact that he wouldn’t see her tonight, as she would be at a show.

When he and Scott showed up at five thirty, however, his jaw almost hit the floor, because she was here, and she was _dancing_.

He had seen her dance before, obviously— he _had_ seen that insane pirate ballet— but it was something else to see her dancing up close, her muscles tensed, her face pulled in concentration, sweat beading on her forehead— and she wasn’t in costume; she was wearing leggings and a strappy sports bra with her pointe shoes, her hair thrown up in a messy bun, nothing like the sleek ones he saw her come home from rehearsal with.

“Hey guys!” Allison called from the kitchen, and Scott immediately went after her voice, retreating into the apartment to find his girlfriend, leaving Stiles frozen in the foyer. Lydia must have heard him, because she turned to face him, pulling out an earbud.

“What?” she demanded, almost accusatory, and it took Stiles a second to realize he probably still had that wonderstruck, slack jawed expression plastered on his face. Hastily, he tried to rearrange his features into something more neutral, but judging by Lydia’s raised eyebrow, he was failing epically.

“I thought you had a show tonight,” he said, and she shook her head at him.

“No. We’re dark today and tomorrow night.” He opened his mouth to ask the next question he had, but she rolled her eyes good-naturedly, answering before he even asked. “‘Dark’ just means there’s no show.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Okay. So did you not have rehearsal today? Why are you practicing?”

Her eyes lit up, fierce and proud, before explaining. “The corps dancer who understudies the Sugar Plum Fairy tore her calf.”

Stiles winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But they want _me_ to be the replacement understudy, so now I get to learn the grand pas.”

He grinned, staring at her with wide eyes. “Lydia, that’s amazing!”

She shrugged. “I probably won’t ever get to dance it— they have a bunch of principals and a couple soloists who know it and actually dance the Sugar Plum Fairy in shows, but still.”

“No, Lydia, that’s incredible,” he said again, his voice full of pride. “They picked you for that.”

She smiled again, a real, true smile, and her eyes shined. “Okay, move,” she instructed, waving her hand at him, shooing him from the open living room. “I have to practice.”

Stiles grinned, retreating to the kitchen, where Allison already had Scott chopping things. Apparently they were really cooking tonight.

“She’s been practicing literally since she got home,” Allison murmured to the two of them, glancing at Lydia over the island. She was dancing again, her headphones in, and Stiles watched in awe as she turned on the tip of her toe four or five times in a row, her balance never wavering.

Allison was making them both cook, but Stiles kept getting distracted by Lydia, dancing in the living room. She looked flawless to him— graceful, effortless, poised— but apparently she wasn’t happy with her performance, because she kept stopping and huffing, restarting her music and beginning the dance again frequently. She looked so aggravated with herself, angry that she couldn’t do the movements correctly (though they looked fine to Stiles), and he wanted nothing more than to grab her gently, calm her down, smooth the stress out of her creased brow. If she knew how perfect she looked in his eyes— maybe then she wouldn’t be so hard on herself.

Allison appeared at his side, sliding a freshly peeled cucumber onto his cutting board. “Why does she do this to herself?” Stiles asked her, meeting her eyes. Allison gave him a little shrug, turning her sights on her best friend again. Lydia had restarted again, repeating the steps she had just done.

“She wants to prove she can,” Allison said.

“She looks like she’s ready to throw something,” Stiles insisted. “Is this really worth it for her?”

Allison raised her eyebrows skeptically. “Have you ever seen her talk about ballet before? Not about promotions or solos or anything. Like, just ballet.” Stiles shrugged. Once or twice, maybe. He felt like whenever Lydia did talk about ballet, it was always about how she had to prove herself. “She loves it more than anything,” Allison continued. “Her whole face lights up, and she gets that look in her eye—  like when she talks about math, but brighter. And I know it seems like she hates it, in moments like this, but I don’t think she’d be able to keep going without ballet in her life.”

Stiles watched her dance again, barely noticing when Allison moved away from him, back towards the stove. Stiles wondered what it would be like, to love something so fiercely—  to be so passionate about something that your entire life would look different without it. He didn’t have anything like that in his life. It was kind of incredible, the amount of dedication Lydia could have towards something like that— to have something be so important to her that it had written itself into the very definition of her being. Watching her now, even though she seemed aggravated with herself, he could see it in her eyes, after Allison pointed it out. That fierce adoration, shining through from behind all her frustration.

Lydia kept restarting, growing more and more aggravated, until finally she almost screamed, letting out a frustrated growl that made Stiles look up in shock from the vegetables he had finally started cutting.

“You okay?” Allison called, glancing over at her friend from the stove. Lydia didn’t answer, angrily yanking out her headphones and dropping them on the coffee table.

“ _No_ ,” she said. “I can’t get this— it’s this stupid transition. I can’t get it right.”

“Why don’t you take a break?” Allison suggested. “You’ve been dancing all day; you’re probably just tired.”

“I can’t stop; I have to get it right,” Lydia insisted, shaking her head. “I want it perfect by next rehearsal.”

Allison gave her friend a sympathetic look. “Lydia, I don’t think they’re gonna fire you if it’s not perfect the day after you learned it.”

“It’s not about getting _fired_ , _”_ Lydia insisted, rolling through her feet. “If I ever want to be a soloist, or a principal, they have to trust me. They have to see I can put in the work and do the choreography.”

“Considering the fact that they hired you, I think they probably trust you,” Allison said.

“No, this is different!” Lydia snapped. “This isn’t corps choreography, or even group choreography. This is ‘I am the only person on this stage, and everyone in this entire theater is watching me’ choreography. It’s not just ‘do it well,’ it’s ‘do it flawlessly.’” She inhaled, her eyes fiery. “I have to make every movement have purpose, every step have a _reason_ , and I have to make it look absolutely effortless. I have to convince twenty-five hundred people that even though every muscle in my body is protesting, every _fiber of my being_ is strained and exhausted, that I am barely breaking a sweat. That I’m floating off the ground and that my limbs rise in the air of their own accord.” She took a breath, still not breaking eye contact. “I have to make every single person in that audience think that I am _perfect_ , and that every movement I just did was just as perfect as me.”

Allison was quiet, looking at her friend apologetically. While Stiles had no doubt that Allison meant well and did her best trying to understand the whole ballet dynamic, Stiles could sense Lydia’s frustration that her friends didn’t _get_ it. Stiles couldn’t imagine working in an environment like that, a place where every single movement you did, every skill you possessed, was constantly under fire to do better, make it cleaner, make it effortless.

“Sorry,” Allison apologized, her voice softer. “I shouldn’t have— it’s your job, obviously you know what you need to do. I’m—”

“No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have snapped,” Lydia relented.  She sighed, looking away from everyone in the kitchen. “I just really want to prove that I can do it.”

“You’ll get it, Lydia,” Allison insisted.

“It’s this transition,” Lydia said again. “The problem is, it’s a partner dance, so I can’t really practice this one part by myself.”

“I can help,” Scott offered immediately, always the one to offer his assistance to anyone.

“No,” Allison said sternly. “You are in charge of stirring the risotto. Stiles, you help.”

Stiles almost dropped the knife he was holding. “Wait, what?” he stuttered. “I— I don’t know how to dance.”

“That’s fine,” Lydia insisted, waving him over. “I just need you to hold me. You don’t have to actually dance.”

Stiles warily put down his knife, walking tentatively over to her. She tugged the headphones out of her phone, plugging it into the sound dock next to the TV.

“Okay,” she said, grabbing him by the wrist and tugging him into the living room. “So I start here—” she spread her legs apart, so that they were in a straight vertical line, one foot in front of the other, and rolled up onto her toes— Stiles was amazed she could balance like that, but she seemed unfazed. “— and you hold my waist, like this,” she instructed, grabbing his hands and placing them on her waist. He jumped a little at the feel of her bare skin under his hands, and Jesus— she was so tiny; his hand took up her entire back, and his thumbs brushed against each other.

“Okay, now I’m gonna move backwards, and you let me go,” she instructed. Stiles nodded, still a little dumbstruck. “Then you move over here, and I’m gonna go into an attitude—” he was assuming that was a dance move, and that she wasn’t going to spontaneously get mad at him, or something— “and you take my hand and walk me in a circle—” she was shifting, until one of her legs was extending up, and she offered him her hand. “Lead me around,” she instructed, and so Stiles walked around her in a loop, so that Lydia rotated on her one pointed foot, turning in a circle. “Got it so far?” she questioned, and Stiles nodded, trying to clear the fog from his head that had resulted in holding her so close for this much time.

“Got it,” he assured her, though his grasp of the dance moves was questionable at best.

“Okay, this is the transition I can’t get,” Lydia told him. “When I get to here, my leg comes down into passé, and you have to take my waist, and you’re supposed to turn me.” Stiles looked alarmed, and she shook her head. “You don’t actually have to turn me. That takes training to know how to do that. I’ll turn, and you just catch me and keep me standing up straight. Don’t worry about the number of turns; I just need to practice the transition.”

“Okay,” Stiles said warily, now fairly certain he was going to mess this whole thing up and Lydia would be aggravated with not just the dancing, but _him_ too. That was the last thing he wanted.

“Then after that, I extend into an arabesque, and the rest I can do,” she said. “You ready?”

“Uh,” Stiles said, but Lydia took that as a yes, because she was hitting play on the music and going back into her starting position.

“I’ll count us in,” she said, and Stiles nodded like he had any idea what that meant. “Five, six, seven, go!” she said, and then she kept talking him through the dance, him tripping over his feet and trying not to screw this up for her. “Okay, let go,” she said. “Now move back, take my hand, walk me in a circle.” Stiles silently followed her cues, trying to focus on what he was supposed to be doing and not getting distracted by how gorgeous she looked dancing. “Okay, here’s the part,” she said. “Grab my waist loosely, so I can turn,” and she was spinning in front of him, her knee almost smacking him. “Okay, grab me,” she said again, and Stiles tightened his grip, stopping her from spinning, her back facing him, her arms extended out gracefully. She rolled down off her toes and turned to face him, grinning. “That was it! That was perfect. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he said automatically, because as she was probably aware of by now, he really wasn’t in the business to deny Lydia Martin anything she asked for.

“Can we go again?” she asked innocently, and Stiles nodded. She grinned, restarting her music again, and they kept at it until Isaac, Kira, and Malia walked through the door.

“What are you doing, Stiles?” Isaac teased, grinning gleefully, and Stiles scowled back at his roommate.

“I’m helping Lydia,” he insisted, and the aforementioned girl grinned at the newest arrivals, nodding her head in agreement.

“He is,” she confirmed, and Isaac just raised an eyebrow at him, his grin becoming a smirk. Luckily, Allison’s call of dinner being ready thwarted Isaac from ribbing his friend any further, and Lydia disappeared down the hallway to change.

All throughout dinner, all Stiles could think about was the surreal feeling of having his hands on her waist.

***

The end of Nutcracker season was so close that Lydia could practically taste it.

There were two more weeks of shows— and she got next Sunday off for Christmas, and then it was a hell week of two show days every day during school vacation, and then she was free from dancing bears and flower waltzes and slipping and sliding on the fake snow that poured down for the entirety of Waltz of the Snowflakes.

All of her friends had sufferings of their own to deal with— it was finals right now, and she wasn’t sure the last time any of them had gotten any sleep at all. Allison and Kira had finished up Friday, Scott and Malia were mostly finished, aside from papers they had to turn in, Isaac had a class presentation to do tomorrow, and Stiles only had one more test on Tuesday. Everyone had booked their flights back home for the holidays later this week, Lydia’s mom had booked her flight to Boston for Christmas weekend, and Lydia was mentally preparing herself for the month she would spend alone in Boston before her friends returned for school mid-January.

It was their last weekend all together, and in celebration, the girls were hosting a Christmas party— Lydia was exhausted from the two show day she’d just had, but the promise of cheap champagne (thank god for no rehearsal on Mondays) and the myriad of frozen appetizers she and Allison had picked out from the supermarket had her looking forward to the night. She’d picked out a sleek black dress and curled her hair; Allison had decorated their apartment to the nines, whipping out a fake Christmas tree, twinkling lights, reindeer statues, actual nutcrackers— the place looked like the warehouse of a Christmas Tree Shop.

Kira and Malia had come across the hall a little while ago to help Allison shuffle appetizers in and out of the oven, seeing as Lydia had just gotten home from her night show, and by the time Lydia emerged from her room, makeup impeccable and heels sky-high, the kitchen smelled heavenly— like mac and cheese balls and pigs in a blanket. She was going to regret this tomorrow for sure, but tonight— it was _Christmas;_ she could indulge herself for one night.

By eight, the boys were knocking on the door, and Allison let them in, a half-full glass of champagne dangling from her fingertips. Scott looked adorably festive in a well-coordinated outfit Allison had obviously picked out for him, Isaac was wearing a _scarf_ again (seriously, that boy owned more neckwear than Lydia did), but Stiles—

He wasn’t wearing plaid, was the first thing Lydia noticed. He’d swapped his usual button downs for a dark red sweater, and it made his eyes look warmer— she could see the toned muscles of his forearms through the sleeves, his hands fidgeting— Jesus Christ, how had it taken her this long to notice how _attractive_ he was?

Stiles met her eyes, and his jaw went slack as his eyes roamed up her figure, taking in the tight curves of her dress, her sleek heels, her bright red lipstick, and Lydia would be lying if she said she hadn’t picked this outfit out with Stiles lingering in the back of her mind.

“Lydia, you look… gorgeous,” he almost stuttered, his eyes finally locking back on hers. The sincerity and absolute awe in his expression made her heart skip, and she beamed at him, her smile radiant and wide like he’d never seen before.

Apparently Allison had never seen her smile like that before either, because as soon as the two of them were alone in the kitchen, transferring piping hot spanakopita over to a plate, Allison confronted her, looking like the cat who got the canary.

“You like him,” she all but insisted, smirking at Lydia. Lydia scoffed, looking away from her best friend and over to the boy in question— he was deep in conversation with Kira, arms flailing, and they were probably discussing Rogue One (which he had seen four times in the three days it had been out, despite the fact that he had finals)— and he looked so endearing, his arms waving, his eyes wide and passionate, his head nodding frantically— god, she had it bad for this dumb dork.

“Do not even _try_ to deny it, Lydia; I see how you’re looking at him.”

Lydia turned back to her friend, groaning. “Fine. I like him. Are you happy?”

Allison’s grin widened. “I knew it.”

Lydia snorted in bitter laughter; moving away from the hors d’oeuvres, she grabbed one of the fancy plastic champagne flutes Allison had bought and poured herself a glass.

“I thought you weren’t drinking,” Allison commented.

“Yeah, screw that,” Lydia muttered, glancing back at Stiles. That sweater looked _so_ good on him. She imagined it would look even better off of him, in a heap on her bedroom floor. Preferably with her dress next to it.

If she was going to get through this night, she was going to need alcohol.

***

By two in the morning most of their friends had dispersed— Isaac had a ten a.m. presentation, so he’d been the first to leave, followed by Malia, who had to write a paper, and Kira, who was flying out tomorrow afternoon— Scott and Allison disappeared into her room, and Stiles and Lydia were left on the couch in the living room, an almost-empty bottle of champagne on the table next to their half-full flutes, the only light in the room coming from the Christmas tree and the icicle lights strung up around the perimeter of the ceiling.

The warm, low light made Stiles’s eyes darker and highlighted the angles in his face, his unfairly long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. They were both a little drunk, and his cheeks were ever so faintly pink— Lydia was sure she was equally, if not more, flushed. She pulled on one of her curls absentmindedly, caught up in his eyes like a fly stuck in honey.

“Seriously?” Stiles asked. “Not at all?”

“Nope,” she confirmed, reaching for her glass and taking another sip of champagne. “I’m not going to be sad.”

“You’re not gonna miss dancing _The Nutcracker_ at all? It’s, like, the most _famous_ ballet. I know this; I looked it up.”

“You researched _ballet?”_ she asked. Stiles rolled his eyes impatiently. “You’re right, though— because it’s so famous, we dance it every season. And maybe next year, if I’m a second soloist instead of a corps dancer—”

“Do you think they’re going to promote you?” he asked, his eyes so hopeful you would think _he_ was the one getting the promotion.

“I don’t know,” Lydia said truthfully, shrugging. “I can hope. This is my fourth season as a corps dancer, and they’ve given me a lot of good parts so far— I got to dance the Pas des Odalisque, I’m dancing Dew Drop in _The Nutcracker_ once a week, they had me learn the Grand Pas—” she smiled at him slightly. “I have to keep working, obviously. They’ll do some promotions at the beginning of the new year, and then the rest of them at the end of the season.  I don’t know what they’ll do, but I’ve gotten such good parts all season so far...” She shrugged again. “I hope so. God, I want to be a principal so bad.”

“You would be the most amazing principal dancer ever,” Stiles assured her, gently grabbing her hand. She blinked in surprise for a second, but he seemed to have not realized what he had done, because he just kept talking. “And I am saying this as a person extremely educated in ballet with a very professional, important opinion.” She laughed, and his mock-serious expression broke, grinning back at her. “You would be amazing, though,” he assured her, tilting his head to the side, absentmindedly playing with her fingers. “Because you’re amazing at everything you do. I’ve never met someone as talented and dedicated as you.”

His eyes were all soft with emotion, and maybe it was the champagne, but Lydia really wanted to kiss him right now. It would be so easy. He was maybe a foot away from her, their legs tangled together on the couch— based on the look in his eyes, that soft, affectionate shine that made her heart swoop with the sheer amount of emotion in his gaze, he probably wouldn’t be opposed. Before she could fully consider what would happen if she _were_ to kiss him, Stiles spoke up again.

“So, say you _are_ a principal dancer,” he said, his eyes still bright, and Lydia couldn’t tear her gaze away from them. She was entranced by him, caught in his gravitational pull, and she was one hundred percent okay with it. “What’s the first part you take? What have you always wanted to dance?”

“Easy,” Lydia said, and there wasn’t a hint of doubt in her voice. “The Grand Pas from _Nutcracker_.”

“I thought you were sick of dancing _The Nutcracker_ ,” Stiles interjected.

She shook her head. “I would never get tired of dancing the Grand Pas. Pas de Deux Intrada is my favorite piece of music from any ballet ever.”

“Which one is that?” he asked. He’d gone and seen her in _The Nutcracker_ with the rest of their friends when she’d danced Dew Drop in the Waltz of the Flowers, and then again by himself two more times, to see her dance the Pastorale and the three ensemble waltzes.

“The beginning of the Sugar Plum Fairy’s grand pas,” she said. “Remember when I made you help me dance?” he nodded. “It was that music.”

“That’s your favorite music from any ballet _ever?”_

“Yes,” she breathed. “It has been since I was little. My mom took me to see _The Nutcracker_ in San Francisco when I was six, and that dance made me want to be a professional ballerina.”

“What a heartwarming backstory,” Stiles joked, and she laughed at him, playfully shoving his shoulder. He laughed right back at her, unfazed. Her body was buzzing from all the champagne. His lips were so close to hers. She would barely have to move her body at all. She wanted to kiss him _so_ badly.

“I’ll dance it onstage someday,” she told him. That’s what she had to tell herself on rough days, when she couldn’t quite get the choreography, when her instructors snapped at her and corrected her movements in harsh tones, when she remained trapped at the back of the studio, watching the other corps dancers rise through the ranks, get the solos, earn high praise from their choreographers. Someday, she was going to make it— that day definitely wasn’t today, and it probably wasn’t tomorrow, but someday— someday, she was going to be center stage, her name printed in bold letters under “principal dancers” in the programs, her technique and grace an exemplar for all other dancers in the company.

“I know,” Stiles said, and his expression was positive— Lydia didn’t always believe in herself, but ever since she had befriended Stiles (or more accurately, he had befriended her), she always had him to root for her. He may not know anything about professional dance, really, but he truly and honestly believed that one day, she’d make it. She needed that, on days where she felt like the world was completely against her.

Lydia found herself drawing closer to him, and his eyes grew wide, not quite sure what was going on— his hand was resting on her upper thigh now, her foot tucked under her body on the couch, and his hand was warm and solid, anchoring her to him in this moment.

“Lydia,” he started, his voice low and throaty and warm, and their noses were inches apart; she could see in his eyes, he wanted to tell her something. Her head dipped closer to his, and maybe it was the champagne, the tingling sensation running up and down her body that could have been from the alcohol or could have been from Stiles— it was a toss up— but this felt good. This felt _right_.

“Yeah?” she whispered, ducking closer to him. He reached out hesitantly, tucking one of her loose curls behind her ear.

That was all it took for her to lean in and kiss him.

He froze at first, seemingly shocked at this development, but he quickly came to his senses, kissing her back enthusiastically. His lips were warm, and he tasted like cheap champagne, and as one of his hands tangled in her curls, Lydia was overwhelmed by how _perfect_ this felt.

Stiles groaned quietly into her mouth, and she wasn’t sure how she ended up in his lap, straddling him, her short dress riding up past her thighs, but one of Stiles’s hands was wrapped around her waist, his fingers splayed over the small of her back, exposed by her backless dress, and she felt his handprint burn on her bare skin, warm and heavy and— god, she never wanted to pull away from him. Her hands sunk into his hair, and dimly, her brain registered she was going to need air sooner or later, but kissing Stiles was _intoxicating_ — she never wanted to stop.

That thought made her pause, momentarily. _Stiles_. She was kissing _Stiles_.

Stiles, one of her best friends. Stiles, who she could count on to cheer her up when she had a bad rehearsal. Stiles, who would walk twenty five minutes in the cold just to see her in person on a random Wednesday night, when she was sweaty and exhausted from her show but really needed someone to vent her frustrations to. Stiles, who came to all of her dance shows and cared about her passions and _listened_ to her when she talked, even when he didn’t know what she was talking about.

Jackson suddenly invaded her mind. And her father. All the people that were supposed to be there for her, but then weren’t. Because of her. Because of her life, her dreams, her career. The reason that her relationship with Jackson had ended was because of her. What if that happened with Stiles? What if she accidentally pushed him away? What if they tried this, and she ruined it, wrecked the easy friendship that they had because they had tried to be more and she had messed it up— how would she stay sane without his sarcastic comments, his beautiful smile, his ever-supportive voice of reason whenever she needed it?

What if she ruined this, just like every other relationship in her life? How could she live with herself knowing that she could have Stiles in her life, and the reason he wasn’t in it anymore was her?

Lydia pulled away from him, retreating back into her shell, gently pushing him back when he chased after her lips. He looked up at her quizzically, his pupils dilated wide, his cheeks flushed, and she shook her head, willing herself not to cry. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, quickly climbing out of his lap. “I didn’t mean— I shouldn’t have done that.” Stiles sat frozen, still looking at her.

“Uh… Okay?” he said, still a little shell shocked.

“I’m just— the champagne, and…” Lydia stuttered. “I’m, uh… I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, sitting up, still looking at her strangely. She avoided meeting his eyes at all cost, not willing to get caught up in their magnetic pull again. Lydia stood up off the couch, and he did too, awkwardly sticking his hands in his pockets, eyes locked on her. “Um, I’ll go, I guess.”

“Okay,” Lydia said, standing frozen as Stiles turned, making towards the door. He froze in the door frame, opening his mouth like he was about to say something, and finally, she met his eyes—and his were so honest, so open, so confused. He closed his mouth, looking away from her, and the door swung shut behind him, leaving Lydia alone in her apartment. The Christmas lights seemed dimmer now, casting a weak light over everything, and Lydia’s shadow on the ground was small, huddled and alone.

She retreated down the hall, scrubbed her makeup off, brushed out her mussed curls, tried to erase the feeling of Stiles’s hands tangled in them from her memory.

Only once she was in bed, dress in a crumpled pile on the floor— only then did she let herself cry.

***

Stiles didn’t know what the hell had just happened.

One second, Lydia had been kissing him, literally been in his _lap_ , his hands in her hair, on her bare back, and then— he wasn’t even sure. She’d retreated back behind her walls, kicked him out, and he didn’t have the slightest clue why. Had he done something that he hadn’t remembered? He _was_ a little drunk. Was it because she was drunk too? Had she just realized that a girl as amazing as she was could do so much better than him? He didn’t know, and it was driving him crazy.  

He stood frozen outside her apartment, leaning up against the wall next to her shut door, wanting to knock, wanting to talk to her, ask her what had just happened, ask for an explanation. Apologize, if he’d done something wrong. Just see her face again; know what was going through her head. Try to fix it. He was stuck here, against the wall, next to her door at two thirty in the morning, because he just wanted to see her again.

A door opened, and Stiles whipped around, but it wasn’t Lydia; it wasn’t even her door— across the hall, Malia emerged, her wavy hair down around her shoulders, dressed in what were clearly pajamas, a tied-off trash bag in her hand. “ _Stiles?”_ she asked, looking at him in confusion. “What are you still doing here?”

He chose to ignore her question. “Why are you taking out the trash at two thirty?”

She almost glared at him. “It smelled. I couldn’t focus on my essay.”

Malia considered him a minute, before dropping her trash bag, crossing her arms over her chest. “Stiles, why are you here?” she asked again, and Stiles sighed, relenting.

“Lydia and I kind of— well,” he trailed off. He kind of didn’t want to talk about this, ever, to anyone.

Malia shook her head. “Understood. I really don’t care enough to know every single detail of what happened, so.”

Stiles pushed off the wall, only swaying a little when he stood upright. Malia stepped forward to catch him, placing a hand in the middle of his chest. “Careful, Stiles,” she said, immediately removing her hand, backing up a little. “Please tell me you’re not walking home like this.”

“I have to go home,” he said, that fact suddenly dawning on him. For the past ten, fifteen minutes, Lydia had been taking up every crevice in his brain, every possible hidden place where there was nothing else— there she was, filling the gap and making him forget about anything else. Like, for example, the fact that he definitely couldn’t spend the night in her hallway, waiting for her to walk out a door and talk to him— something he was positive wasn’t going to happen anyway.

“Yeah, no way,” Malia said, snapping him away from his Lydia-centric chain of thought. “You’re drunk. I can’t let you walk home like this alone. You’ll get lost, and murdered, and Scott will kill me.” She turned to her door, fitting the key in the lock and pulling it open. “Come in for a minute. I’ll make you coffee.”

Time flashed before him at those words, and suddenly the hallway was gone; all he could see was Lydia, in her ballet clothes, making him coffee in a weakly-lit kitchen, talking to him, smiling at him, not hiding behind the walls that she had thrown up fifteen minutes ago, when she’d shoved him away from her.

Stiles took a step towards Malia, following her into her apartment, that terrified, overwhelmed look in Lydia’s wide green eyes still haunting him.

 

**B: Variation**

January was always a long, lonely month for Lydia.

She didn’t begrudge her friends for going home for break, and it wasn’t like she didn’t spend time with her work friends, who also lived in the city and were in the exact same situation that she was, but spending a month alone in her apartment was desolate. Seeing her mom for Christmas weekend had been nice— she’d come up Christmas Eve to see Lydia dance, then stayed until Monday, because the theater was dark, but the last week of December was school vacation week, which meant two-show days for _Nutcracker_ every day, and her mother hadn’t stuck around for that.

Lydia got a week off after Nutcracker closed, and she hadn’t really wanted to see her mother again so soon, so she had gone to New York City for a couple days to visit Kira, since she was the closest. They’d had a lot of fun, and it had been nice for Lydia to relax, not obsess over dance constantly, but now that she was back, that winter gloom was sinking over her again, smothering her and pulling her down.

It wasn’t like she didn’t talk to her friends— Kira kept texting her about all the fun things she was doing in New York City, Malia enjoyed flaunting the warmer temperatures of California with the use of snapchat filters, and she facetimed Allison, who was spending Christmas break in France with her father, every other day, but waking up to an empty apartment, cooking meals for herself every day, missing Kira or Malia sprawled out on their floor doing homework, eating Tuesday night dinners all alone— it was starting to weigh down on Lydia, and she selfishly couldn’t wait for her friends’ breaks to end, just so that she wouldn’t have to be alone every day.

Lydia sat at the counter, her barely-touched dinner in front of her— she’d gotten back from their first rehearsal, and while she was hungry, she didn’t really want to eat. It had been a hard rehearsal, and Lydia hadn’t been able to get a grasp on the choreography like she usually could— causing the instructors to criticize her sharply, tell her to do better, work harder—

Lydia could pretend that she wasn’t sure why today had been so rough, but she knew that would be a lie— today, as the first day back, was the day that dancers got promoted before the end of the season, and Lydia’s name hadn’t been called.

She shouldn’t have expected anything, and that’s what was killing her— she should have _known_ that she wouldn’t get promoted, but when they’d given her all those great parts in _Le Corsaire_ and _Nutcracker_ , had made her learn the grand pas, she had gotten her hopes up, and she had thought that maybe she _would_ get moved up. But now, sitting at the kitchen counter, the apartment cold and the sky dark, Lydia felt stupid and foolish and silly for hoping for something like that. There were thousands of other dancers out there that were better than her, plenty of girls in the company that would get moved up before she ever got a chance, and she thought that she had taught herself to bury her emotions _ages_ ago, thought she had a handle on the rejection she dealt with every day, but Stiles Stilinski had just _had_ to come along and shake something loose in her that had her hoping again. She should have left that part of her buried deep down.

Lydia’s phone sat next to her, still and silent, and all Lydia really wanted to do was talk to her friends, hear their comforting words of encouragement, hear them tell her she was amazing and that she’d get there eventually, despite the lack of truth behind those statements— but she’d already talked to Allison today, and Kira was at a show in the city right now— and deep down in her heart, she really, truly only wanted to talk to Stiles, see his comforting amber eyes, his affectionate little smile as he told her how priceless she was. But she hadn’t spoken to Stiles at all over break; not since they’d kissed and she’d pushed him away.

Lydia took a slow bite of her dinner, staring at her blank phone, wishing his name would pop up on the screen with a new message, knowing subconsciously that it wouldn’t.

She tried to tell herself that he was just busy, that he, Scott, and Isaac were doing things in California, that he was probably spending time with his dad, who he hadn’t seen since September. But she knew, really, that he wasn’t not texting her because he didn’t have time. He wasn’t texting her because he didn’t want to.

Lydia thought back to that night, the party where they had kissed and everything changed, and realized that in pulling away, in trying to save their friendship before it went somewhere further and she messed everything up, she had done exactly the opposite.

***

Everyone slowly returned over the next two weeks— Allison came back a full week before classes started, as her dad was going somewhere else in Europe, and Scott was back shortly after her, no doubt with Stiles and Isaac in tow, as they all were from the same town, plus Kira and Malia were back Martin Luther King Day weekend— and it was so nice to have people in her apartment again, friends she could talk to and eat with and vent about rehearsals to. Lydia was so grateful for Allison, always willing to listen to her talk about rehearsals, because _Artifact_ was a hard ballet, and it was really taking a toll on Lydia. She wasn’t sure why this ballet was proving so difficult for her— she’d danced modern ballets before; she’d even danced William Forsythe ballets before— Boston Ballet had done _The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude_ last season in their show _Kaleidoscope_ , and Lydia had loved that piece— but this choreography had her struggling, and the constant criticisms and corrections she received in rehearsal were weighing down on her.

If she was being totally honest with herself, she had a feeling that being passed over again for a second soloist spot had her struggling even more than usual, and that was what was weighing her down in rehearsal. That was the reason she couldn’t get the choreography, because if they didn’t notice her before, why would they notice her now? But if she ever wanted to _actually_ be a second soloist, she had to have her choreography perfect, and the fact that the dances wouldn’t click for her had her feeling more tired and frustrated than ever.

She stumbled out of a fouetté again, swearing under her breath as she stepped on Patrick’s foot. They’d asked the two of them to learn one of the pas de deux, and Lydia had been excited to do so— even if they hadn’t promoted her, at least they were still keeping her in mind for better parts. That had to mean _something,_ right? Maybe she was just grasping at straws. _If they had wanted to promote you, they would have,_ her subconscious butted in, but Lydia shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She needed to focus.

“Careful, Lydia, you keep missing that transition,” the stager informed her, her voice sharp. Lydia nodded her head, unable to meet the woman’s eye. This was the third or fourth time they’d had to stop because she’d screwed up, and if she had to see the disappointment and frustration on her instructor’s face, she might not be able to hold in the tears of aggravation she could feel pricking behind her eyes.

“Sorry,” Lydia managed, blinking rapidly and rolling through one of her feet. Her ankle twinged where she had fallen off pointe and landed wrong.

“Don’t apologize, just do it right,” the stager told her, and Lydia nodded, looking up at Patrick. He was studying her quietly, his gaze slightly quizzical. “Go again, from the glissade.”

Lydia moved back to her place, Patrick hovering in his right behind her. The music started again, and Lydia tried to focus on the steps. _You know this_ , she told herself. _Stop overthinking and just_ do _it._ She braced herself on Patrick’s shoulder, extending into an arabesque, before turning, Patrick grabbing her waist and lifting her into the air as she fan-kicked her legs over. He placed her down, and she turned under his arm, pulling back into him as he held her waist again, her leg extending out—

She made it past the part she’d screwed up last time, but not by much. After the fouetté, there was a series of turns that extended out into arabesques, and Lydia was good at turns— she could land quadruple pirouettes without batting an eye, could piqué turn across rooms for days without getting dizzy, but she missed this one— stumbling, her leg came out of passé and whacked into Patrick’s extended leg, setting off his balance and making him step back as well. Their stager sighed, resting her face in her hand. Lydia scrunched her eyes together, willing herself not to cry.

“Sorry, my bad,” Patrick immediately apologized, though he had done nothing wrong. He looked at their stager, flashing her a smile. “Can we take a quick break? I’m parched.”

“Sure,” she sighed, pausing their music. Patrick grabbed Lydia’s hand, dragging her across the studio to their bags.

“Drink,” he instructed, pulling Lydia’s water bottle out of her bag and handing it to her. Lydia didn’t fight him; silently taking the bottle, she took a sip. She tried to slow her breathing down, focus on something else other than how much she was sucking at what she was supposed to be good at. God, she couldn’t even get the choreography right— why on earth had she ever thought they were going to _promote_ her?

“What the hell?” Patrick asked after a second, giving her a sharp look. Lydia felt even more guilty now. This was their second season as duet partners, but Patrick was already a second soloist— now she was just dragging him back down as well.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I keep messing up, and I can’t get the choreography right—”

“No, I don’t mean that,” Patrick said. “I mean you look like you’re gonna cry.”

Lydia almost smiled, but his concern just made her tear up more. “I’m fine,” she assured him.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Lydia, you are clearly _not_ fine. Why are you so concerned about messing up? This is staging rehearsal, and we learned this two days ago. I keep messing up too.”

“I have to get it right,” she insisted. It was easy for him to say he kept messing up; his mistakes were probably stepping on the wrong foot, not falling out of a turn and tripping over his partner.

“Lydia,” Patrick insisted, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Take it easy on yourself. Okay? This is a hard ballet; we just learned it. And this is just rehearsal. You’ll get it. Relax, okay?”

She nodded her head slowly, trying to calm herself down. The problem was that it _wasn’t_ just rehearsal for her. Every single day, every single second, she felt like she was auditioning for the right to be acknowledged; every single rehearsal was a test that she had to pass to become a soloist. If she couldn’t get this choreography now, how was she supposed to be trusted with choreography later? Everything she did had impact, and because of that, everything she did had to be perfect.

They ran the dance what seemed like a million more times, and Lydia tried to follow Patrick’s advice— tried to relax, tried to take it easier on her criticism of herself, tried to stop telling herself that she was failing at what she was supposed to be good at. She danced marginally better, and their stager seemed satisfied by the end of rehearsal, but Lydia still felt utterly defeated. By the time she got back to her apartment, she found herself never wanting to think about rehearsal ever again.

Luckily, Malia already needed help with her math homework, so Lydia relaxed by losing herself to numbers. She loved numbers— numbers were constant, and steady, and they wouldn’t yell at her if she messed them up.

The two girls sprawled out on the living room couch, notebooks covering the coffee table, as Lydia explained the concepts Malia couldn’t quite grasp to the other girl. Half an hour later, Malia was getting it, working independently through her practice problems while Lydia double checked her work to make sure it was correct.

“These look good,” Lydia said, passing the page back to Malia. Malia sighed in relief, looking up from her current page of math.

“Thank god,” Malia sighed. “This finally makes sense. Thank you for explaining it.”

“Of course,” Lydia replied. She would always help with math. Math kept her centered, helped her focus, calmed her down. After rehearsal this morning, she needed some math.

“Hey,” Malia said hesitantly, and Lydia turned towards her friend, preparing herself for another conceptual question. But Malia didn’t look confused like she usually did when she asked Lydia to explain things to her— she looked a little nervous, almost wary. That was a new look on Malia— generally her expression was bold, blunt, and surefire— Lydia rarely saw her look _hesitant_.

“I have a question,” Malia said, and Lydia nodded, signalling her to continue. Malia looked at her friend cautiously.

“So, Stiles and I talked a lot over break,” she said, and Lydia’s heart plummeted— as much as she’d known it wasn’t true, her excuses of “he’s busy” or “he’s spending time with his dad” were the only small strings of hope she’d been clinging to, praying she hadn’t ruined their friendship. Malia looked at Lydia, like she knew what her friend was thinking, before continuing. “Anyway. He asked me out, last week when we got back—” Malia had _seen_ Stiles since he came back? Had he been in this building? Purposely avoided coming to see her? She hadn’t seen him since Christmas— he’d made up some BS excuse as to why he couldn’t come to Tuesday night dinner this week— but thinking of Malia _seeing_ Stiles, in person— Jesus, this felt worse that getting yelled at in rehearsal earlier.

Malia continued. “I just wanted to check— would it be okay with you? If I went out with him?”

Lydia tried to compose herself, rearrange her face into a neutral expression, ignoring the stabbing feeling in her chest. “Why do you need to check with me?”

Malia gave her a confused look. “I thought you two liked each other. But at Christmas, something changed, he said, so I just wanted to check with you first. Because you’re my friend.”

As touched as she was that Malia had wanted to check with her first, before starting anything with Stiles, Lydia felt like her chest was constricting. _Stiles_ had told Malia something had changed. This was exactly what Lydia had been afraid of, why she had pushed him away in the first place, and now it was all spiraling out of control— she was losing Stiles, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Yeah,” Lydia said, still feeling lost. “Yeah, I don’t care. You can go out with him, if you want.”

“Okay,” Malia nodded, turning back to her work. Lydia, too, looked back down at the math in her lap, desperately willing herself not to cry, praying to find solace in the numbers staring back at her.

 _Numbers_. Constant, steady, peaceful. Numbers wouldn’t break her heart like this.

***

Lydia was doing her makeup when Allison found her.

She was supposed to go out tonight; some of her friends from ballet had invited her out after rehearsal, and Lydia knew that she _should_ go— Allison and Scott were going out with Stiles and Malia, and the _last_ thing she wanted to think about was Stiles and Malia together, again. They’d been on a couple dates in the past two weeks, according to Instagram, which was the only way Lydia ever knew about anything Stiles was doing now. So while a distraction would be good, and she genuinely liked the girls she danced with, one of them had been promoted to second soloist at the beginning of the year _, unlike Lydia,_ and if Lydia had to hear her subtly brag about it all night, she would probably scream. That was the tricky thing with being in a dance company— you loved the other dancers like family, you wanted them to do well, but underneath it all, you were ultimately competing against each and every one of them.

Lydia examined the dark rings under her eyes— _Artifact_ still wasn’t coming easily to her, so she was overworking herself in rehearsals and practicing at home in order to get it right, and it was showing. She dabbed concealer over the purplish bags, and that was, of course, when Allison walked in.

“What do you think of this— Lydia, are you okay?” Allison broke off, looking at her best friend. She was obviously ready to go out, dressed up, makeup done, and Lydia tried not to think about Stiles and Malia going on that date, which, of course, only made her more upset, but— Allison entered the room, leaning up on Lydia’s vanity next to her. “What’s wrong?” Allison asked softly, and Lydia opened her mouth to brush her off, but Allison stopped her, saying, “Don’t say _nothing_ , because you look like you’re about to cry. _Tell_ me.”

Lydia sighed, looking at her friend with watery eyes. “I just don’t want to go out,” she said simply. “All Adelaide’s gonna talk about is how she’s a second soloist now, and I don’t want to hear about it.”

Allison gave her a sympathetic look, sitting down on Lydia’s bed, gesturing for her friend to follow. Lydia sat down next to her, drawing her legs up to her chest, feeling small and stupid for what was _really_ bothering her.

“That’s not it,” Allison said. “Lydia, what’s actually wrong?”

Lydia sighed, burying her head in her hands, kneading her palms into her eyes to keep the tears at bay. Allison was going to think she was so _stupid_ for what she’d done.

“It’s your stupid date,” Lydia admitted, and Allison tensed next to her. Lydia sat up, looking at her friend. “No, not Scott,” Lydia corrected. “The whole— Stiles and Malia.”

“Ah,” Allison said, nodding. “Stiles.”

Lydia sighed, burying her head in her hands again. “Yes. Stiles.”

“What happened with him?” Allison asked. “You haven’t talked about him since Christmas.”

Lydia groaned. “I ruined everything, Allison. I was so _stupid_.”

Allison remained quiet, letting her friend continue.

“You remember the Christmas party, right?” Lydia asked, resting her chin in her hands. Allison nodded. “Well, after everyone left… Stiles and I were talking, and we’d had a lot to drink, and… I may have kissed him.”

Allison’s jaw dropped. “ _What?!_ You kissed Stiles and didn’t tell me?!”

Lydia groaned again. “Well, I got scared, because Jackson, and my dad, and everyone else who I’ve screwed up my relationships with, and I was scared of losing _Stiles_ too, so I stopped and told him I shouldn’t have kissed him, and I was hoping he’d forget it, and we could move on, but—” she blinked back tears, trying to maintain her composure. “He seems to have _really_ moved on. With Malia. And he still won’t talk to me. I haven’t spoken to him since the party.” She laughed humorlessly, running her thumb under her eye to catch the lone tear that had sneaked out. “I was trying to prevent _exactly_ what’s happening now. And I ruined _everything_.”

Allison didn’t say anything, because there really was nothing she could say. Instead, she leaned over, pulling Lydia into her arms and hugging her tightly. Lydia hugged her back, so thankful that she had Allison in her life, someone who unconditionally and unequivocally would listen to her troubles, comfort her, and try to make her feel better.

“I have to text Scott,” Allison said as they pulled away, tugging her phone out of her jacket pocket.

“Why?” Lydia asked.

“Because I need to tell him our date tonight is postponed,” Allison explained. Lydia opened her mouth to tell her friend that that wasn’t necessary; that she was fine, really; that she didn’t need to reschedule her entire night because Lydia made a stupid mistake, but Allison shook her head. “No, don’t argue. We’re gonna watch _The Notebook_ and eat Ben and Jerry’s and wallow in self-pity, and Scott will be fine.”

Lydia leaned over, resting her head on her friend’s shoulder. Allison wrapped her arms around Lydia again, squeezing her comfortingly, and Lydia felt like crying again, but not for the same reason. “Thank you,” she said, and Allison shrugged gently.

“Of course. What are best friends for, right?”

***

“Stiles, this is ridiculous.”

“Is it really? I don’t think so.”

“You cannot keep avoiding the girls’ apartment because you’re scared of seeing Lydia,” Scott insisted.

“Okay, I am _not_ scared.”

Scott gave his friend a look. “Really?”

Stiles shrugged sheepishly.  “I’m not _scared_. I just… am not looking forward to seeing her.”

Scott snorted. “That’s a first.”

Stiles groaned. “Scott, she kissed me on impulse, then realized what she was doing, then _apologized_ , then _ran off and hid!”_

Scott shrugged. “I didn’t say that what she did didn’t suck. I just said you can’t keep avoiding Tuesday night dinners and weekend movie nights and everything else because you’re embarrassed.”

Stiles huffed dramatically. “If the girl you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the day you met her kissed _you_ , then apologized and ran off because she realized she can do so much better, would you _not_ be embarrassed?”

Scott leaned on the counter across from Stiles, giving his friend a look. “You don’t know that’s why she freaked out.”

“What else would it be, Scott?” Stiles demanded. “Why else would she have completely shut down?” he sighed again. “Jesus, I can’t believe I was stupid enough to believe I _actually_ had a chance.”

Scott threw him a sympathetic look, but Stiles continued. “I’m done with that. I’m not going to keep pining over her like this, because it _sucks_.”

Scott stared at him contemplatively, like he was considering what he should say next, but his phone buzzed on the counter before he could say anything, a text from Allison lighting up the screen. Scott read it, frowning.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“Allison says she can’t go out tonight,” Scott said, shrugging. “Something happened with Lydia.”

Stiles sat up straighter, concern evident on his face. “What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. Allison says they just need a girl’s night.” Scott smirked. “But yeah, you’re definitely over her.” Stiles scowled at his friend.

“Are you still going out with Malia?” Scott questioned, and Stiles shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, but Scott was giving him a look. “ _What_ , Scotty?”

“I just— I’m still confused by this whole Malia thing.”

“Why?” Stiles wasn’t sure what there was to be confused about. He’d told Scott what had happened after he’d gotten home that night— Malia had invited him in, made him coffee, they’d chatted. Stiles had always thought she was funny, admired her snark and brazen sense of humor, and he’d enjoyed talking with her, so when she texted him over break, he’d texted her back. They’d talked a lot, and Stiles liked her, liked how bold and upfront she was, unapologetic for who she was and what she thought. She liked him, and it was nice to _know_ that, to not have to wonder if he was going crazy or try to puzzle together feelings like he had to do with Lydia.

“I just don’t get why you’re dating Malia, when you’re obviously still in love with Lydia.”

“Malia and I aren’t dating,” Stiles insisted, because they weren’t, officially. “And I’m not still in love with Lydia.”

“Sure,” Scott said, shaking his head and picking up his phone. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Stiles watched his friend leave the room, desperately wishing that there wasn’t any truth to Scott’s words.

***

Lydia had thought that maybe seeing Stiles again would make things better, but it was doing exactly the opposite— it was making things even worse.

Stiles had started coming to Tuesday dinners and weekend movie nights and other things again, and it was hard to pass off the icy tension between them. They were civil to each other, sure, and they would talk to each other, occasionally, but seeing him with Malia— as of a week ago, they were officially dating, and Lydia shouldn’t have _cared;_ she should have been indifferent, happy even— the reason she’d pulled away from him was because she didn’t want to risk their friendship, and there was little danger of their friendship escalating if he had a girlfriend. Still, seeing them smile at each other and hold hands and sit next to each other on the couch, sides pressed up against each other, it sent something feral and possessive in Lydia’s stomach into rage, and she would try not to look at them, to avoid seeing red.

Jealous or not, Lydia couldn’t stand not having Stiles in her life, so she tried to be friendly, tried to pretend she hadn’t totally thrown up walls in the middle of that Christmas party, sending him sailing backwards. They could talk to each other in a group, and even for a couple minutes by themselves, but something was changed now. Stiles didn’t joke with her; there were no snarky comments or witty comebacks directed towards her. And the text messages, snapchats, facetime calls— all of that was over. She hadn’t texted Stiles since the night of the party, and he had made similar (no) efforts to talk to her as well.

She felt so _dumb_ , but even making breakfast for herself, all she could think about was that morning months ago when she and Stiles had sat at the island and talked. She just wanted to talk to him again; just hear his voice. But she didn’t know how to eliminate the tension between them.

Lydia opened her apartment door, quietly slipping into the hallway. She’d woken up an hour ago, hadn’t even gone to rehearsal yet, and already she felt drained. Closing her door, she turned, and stopped dead— because right in front of her was Stiles.

He was all bundled up in a coat, backpack slung over his shoulder, and Lydia’s heart stopped— what was he doing here, so early in the morning? Had he come to see _her?_ Her heart leaped at the possibility— maybe, maybe things would be okay after all.

“Lydia,” he said in surprise, and their eyes met for the first time in weeks. Lydia could see all that emotion that was generally so evident, so clear and out in the open, tamped down and repressed behind his whiskey eyes. Her heart ached, because _she_ had done that.

“Hi,” she responded, trying to make her face neutral, mask all the hurt that she felt inside at the indifference in his gaze, even though rationally, she knew she couldn’t blame him for it. She was the one who had shoved him away, forced him out; it wasn’t his fault that she had hurt him.

“Uh, heading to dance?” Stiles asked, gesturing at her bag. She nodded wordlessly. “How are rehearsals going?”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“Good,” Stiles said, pausing awkwardly. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, staring at him through her lashes. “Stiles?” she asked, and he looked at her, eyes momentarily so tender— maybe they could fix this. Maybe they could be better.

“I just…” She started. “I’m sorry about… last month. I shouldn’t have pushed you away—”

“No, Lydia, it’s fine,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “You don’t have to explain yourself, okay? It’s fine.”

Lydia was silent a moment. She wanted to explain herself, but what could she say? _I’m hopelessly in love with you, but I can’t be with you because I’m terrified of messing up? And I don’t want to have a life without you in it?_ That sounded dramatic even to her.

Stiles’s phone beeped, and he glanced down, looking at it. His expression changed, and he met her eyes, his wide and apologetic. “I have to get going,” he said. “I’m gonna be late for class.” She nodded. “Have a good rehearsal,” he told her. “I’ll see you later?”

She nodded. “Yes. See you later.” He offered her a brief, slight smile, before disappearing down the hallway, around the corner and down the stairs.

Lydia stood frozen, looking at the blank door he had been standing in front of, and when she realized who he had actually been there for, it took everything she had to maintain her composure.

Lydia turned away from Malia and Kira’s door, walking slowly down the hallway, towards the train that would take her to work.

Lydia wasn’t sure if it was the fire running through her veins, anger at herself for pushing Stiles away, jealousy at Malia for having exactly what Lydia wanted, heartbreak at knowing that she was never going to get back to that place with Stiles, that comfortable friendship they had been at before, dread at realizing that she didn’t know what to do without Stiles in her life now that he was gone— but in rehearsal, the choreography came to her easily, and she danced better than she had in weeks. Her teachers praised her, told her she looked beautiful, danced flawlessly— when she danced perfectly, at least, no one could tell she was breaking on the inside.

***

Lydia wasn’t sure if it was rehearsal or the cold or both, but she was so freaking exhausted.

Tired of this show, tired of messing up choreography, tired of getting yelled at, tired of everything. Allison could tell; within a minute of Lydia getting back to their apartment, her best friend had forced her onto the couch and handed her a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

“Lydia, are you okay?” Allison said, her hand resting on Lydia’s shoulder. Lydia turned to her friend, her big brown eyes so concerned, and Lydia felt like crying. God, she loved Allison.

“No,” Lydia admitted. “It’s this stupid ballet— I don’t know _why_ , it’s taking me so much longer to get the choreography. And then I get aggravated, and I dance even _worse_ , and then I get _snapped_ at by the teachers—” she looked at Allison, shaking her head. “All I want is to prove that I can do it. That I can be a soloist, then be a principal. That’s all I want. And I feel like I’m moving backwards instead of forwards.”

Allison smiled sympathetically at her friend. “Not everything’s going to come easily to you. Sometimes things are just hard.”

“I know,” Lydia sighed. “But I have worked my whole _life_ for this. This is what I’m supposed to be good at. But all of a sudden, I can’t get it.” She looked away, shaking her head slightly. “And it’s making me feel like a failure.”

“Hey,” Allison said, giving her a pointed stare. “You are _not_ a failure. You got into Boston Ballet—one of the most prestigious dance companies in the _country_ — at sixteen. You’ve danced solos, understudied principal parts, and lots of other amazing things. You’re gonna struggle sometimes. You’re not perfect. But just because you’re not doing well now doesn’t make you a failure. Okay?” Allison shook her head. “God, Lydia, the stuff you’ve accomplished— you’re amazing. Don’t ever doubt that. And someday, you are going to be the best principal dancer that company has ever seen.”

Lydia wanted to cry at the sincerity in Allison’s voice. Instead, she just wrapped her arms around the other girl, squeezing her tight. Allison hugged her back, and god, Lydia wasn’t sure what she had ever done to deserve such a fantastic best friend.

“Let’s do something tonight, okay?” Allison suggested. “It’s Saturday night. We can go out, and you can forget about dance for a little while.”

“Aren’t you going out with Scott?” Lydia questioned. Allison shrugged.

“We’re going ice skating, but he won’t mind. Let’s invite everyone. You love skating.”

Allison called Scott, instructing him to tell his roommates that they were all meeting at the Frog Pond on the Commons at seven. She told Lydia to put on warm clothes and find her skates, before going across the hall to see what Malia and Kira were doing.

Lydia bundled herself up in a thick sweater and wool socks, putting on her green coat over and digging her ice skates out of the bottom of her closet, where they were buried under literally hundreds of pairs of pointe shoes. By six thirty, Allison, Lydia and Kira were on the T heading to Park Street— Malia was at the guys’ apartment with Stiles already, so those two, Scott, and Isaac were meeting them there. Lydia tried not to think of Stiles and Malia too much. Allison was right; she had enough stress from dance that she needed to get rid of— the _last_ thing she should do was think about Stiles.

The guys were already in line when they reached the park, and as they stood in line, Lydia tried not to dwell on how cute Stiles looked, all buttoned up in his coat, his cheeks flushed from the cold— they were never going to get back to being friends if she couldn’t first tamp down her feelings for him.

“Allison, stop worrying,” Scott said, confidently, squeezing his girlfriend’s hand. “I’m gonna be _fine_.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Have you ever skated before?”

He tilted his head to the side a little, considering her. “No. But I was lacrosse captain in high school. I have great reflexes. I’m gonna be good at it.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Okay,” she said, but her voice was heavy with doubt, and the rest of them laughed.

“Don’t worry, Scotty, I’ll pull you around when you can’t get yourself off the wall,” Stiles offered, and Malia bumped his arm with her shoulder.

“You better not!” she warned her boyfriend. “Then who’s gonna help me? I’m a terrible skater.”

“I’ve got you, Malia,” Kira offered. Malia grinned at her roommate in gratitude.

It became extremely clear, after about five seconds on the ice, that Scott evidently could _not_ skate whatsoever. Stiles was true to his word, though, tugging his friend around the rink, laughing at him the whole time. Lydia and Allison skated together, arms linked, and Allison had been right— this was really nice, relaxing and therapeutic, just skating in endless loops, and for the first time in _weeks_ , she wasn’t thinking about ballet.

They kept lapping Scott, who was still struggling, and Stiles, who was laughing at his friend exponentially more with each pass. On their last lap, it was clear that Scott was beginning to get frustrated— Lydia guessed his best friend’s hysterical laughing wasn’t helping.

“Do you mind if I rescue Scott?” Allison asked her friend. “He’s probably gonna slap Stiles if he keeps laughing at him.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Lydia assured her. Allison threw her a grateful smile, before skating up to her boyfriend, taking his hands from Stiles. Stiles skated up to where Isaac and Kira were tugging along Malia, and Lydia didn’t want to see Stiles pulling his girlfriend around the rink, so she sped up, passing the group. She’d always loved skating, and she was pretty good at it, too— ballet helped a lot, and she could do some of the fancy turns. As a clearing opened up in the ice, Lydia set up to do one of said turns— pulling her leg in and crossing her arms, she twirled on the ice, her hair flying around her. Skating turns were so much faster than dancing turns— she loved the feeling of the cold air on her cheeks as she spun so fast that the rink around her became a whitish blur, bright streaks appearing from the Christmas lights strung through the trees surrounding the Frog Pond. When she finally slowed, coming out of the turn gracefully, her eyes momentarily found Stiles. He was on the other side of the rink, holding Malia’s hand as she clutched to the rink wall, but the look of awe and admiration on his face was so comforting, so gratifying and familiar, she couldn’t help but smile widely at him. He returned the grin, his eyes shining like they used to when he looked at her, and Lydia tried to ignore the way her heart lurched.

She caught up with Kira and Isaac, who had split from Stiles and Malia, and she skated in loops with them for a while. Going skating had been a good idea— dance was far from her mind, she had just had a moment with Stiles that almost felt _normal_ , like maybe they could be friends again— that was, if she ignored the soft thumping of her heart every time one of his grins was directed at her.

Lydia was showing off, skating backwards in front of Isaac and Kira so that she could talk with them, and that’s when she saw it: Stiles and Malia stopped on the opposite side of the rink, Malia holding onto the wall tightly with one hand, Stiles laughing at something she’d said, their linked hands swinging next to them. Stiles was playing with her fingers, and his eyes were lit up, looking at her. Lydia swallowed, trying to ignore the jealousy bubbling in the pit of her stomach. He leaned in and kissed her, pulling her closer on the ice, and Lydia paled, almost stopping dead, before realizing that Kira and Isaac would run into her. She turned around, away from Stiles and Malia, so that she was facing frontwards again.

 _This is your fault,_ her brain whispered harshly to her. _You could have had that, with Stiles, but you were too scared. It’s all your fault._

It _was_ all her fault. _All her fault._

She tried to ignore the couple— she had rejected Stiles, and he had every right in the world to date whoever the hell he wanted— as much as she wanted him to reciprocate her feelings, he was under no obligation to, and she couldn’t stand here hating Malia and Stiles simply because she had been too scared to admit how she really felt about him— but she needed to forget about this. Bury her feelings for him so deep down no one would ever suspect they were still there.

Lydia kept skating, trying so hard to suppress her growing jealousy at Stiles and Malia, and failing spectacularly.

***

March brought warmer winds and weak sunshine, cleared out the steely gray skies of the deep winter months, and the snow began to melt, the dead, frostbitten plants visible again. It was still cold, but standing at the train station now, waiting for the T, the sunshine seeped over Lydia’s skin, warm and gentle, and it reminded her that the dark, cold months of winter wouldn’t last forever.

 _Artifact_ was finally over, and Lydia felt like she could breathe again— _Wings of Wax_ rehearsals were under way and going much better than the last show already, despite the fact that she really only was dancing corps parts. She was remaining optimistic, though— _Wings of Wax_ was a smaller modern show, she kept telling herself, and they did have actual principals and soloists they had to give parts to. She would get better things in _Sleeping Beauty_ , another big classical show. It was enough for now that rehearsals were going well again. Between that and the promise of springtime, Lydia was feeling hesitantly optimistic about the coming months.

Wednesday morning meant company class, and today’s had Lydia feeling like she was finally at peace again. One of her favorite instructors was leading them through warm-ups, a sweet little old Russian lady whose voice was like warm honey, and the spring sunshine was filtering into the studio from the large windows on the opposite wall, bathing her in warm light— Lydia took a deep breath, exhaling as she sank into another plié, all the muscles in her body relaxed. Company classes were always the highlight of her week— to just be able to _dance_ , not have to worry about getting everything right, not have to constantly prove herself— this was what Lydia loved about ballet. That feeling she got in her chest, warm and comforting, when she could just _dance_ , feel her body moving and her muscles tensing, stretching her limbs and pushing herself further. That buzz that filled her body every time she was onstage, every time she could just let go, perform her heart out, just move. That was what had drawn her into dance, why she had stuck with it, through years of missing school and social events; it was why she had sacrificed normal friends and a normal life her entire childhood, uprooted everything she’d known and moved to Boston with her family when she was twelve, why she’d chosen to stay even when the only family she had left was on the opposite side of the country. Because for eighteen years, ballet had been her outlet, her space to think, the only place she would feel like herself. Through heartbreak, disappointments, losses, failures, and regrets, ballet was always there, always waiting for her. It had become her backbone, etched itself into her soul, was a part of her sense of self. Lydia couldn’t separate ballet from herself— it had woven itself into her very fiber of being. Moments like this reminded her why she worked so hard, forced herself to always be better— this feeling, this pure love for what she did made her want to push herself even farther, be the absolute best that she could be. Standing here at the barre, moving through sets of warm ups, that feeling that Lydia had lost during _Artifact_ rehearsals had returned— that pure passion for what she did, her unwavering love of ballet. And right then she felt like she could finally breathe again.

She felt like a new person when she walked into their apartment after rehearsal— company class had put her in such a good mood, and _Wings_ _of_ _Wax_ rehearsals after had gone perfectly; the sun was out, finally, and she was looking forward to the coming weeks of dance, feeling confidence in her performance instead of an impending sense of dread at the prospect of learning more choreography. Her knees were killing her, though; she’d have to ice them for a little bit.

She shrugged off her coat, not paying attention to the people in the living room, until she heard a voice say— “I don’t know. We just kind of broke up.”

Lydia turned sharply, and there, on her couch, in that stupid blue flannel that looked so good on him, was Stiles Stilinski.

“Hey, Lydia,” Scott said, and she tore her eyes away from Stiles, seeing Allison and Scott sitting across from him. Lydia offered Scott a smile, turning to hang her coat on the rack, trying to maintain a firm grip on her emotions.

She didn’t see Stiles very often without Malia anymore, and generally, when she _was_ going to see him, she’d know ahead of time and have time to prepare herself. But now he was here, completely unexpected, the sunlight streaming through the window highlighting his face, making his eyes shine. And had she heard him right? Had he said that he and Malia broke up? A wave of relief that she knew she had no right to feel washed over her, even though this didn’t mean that Stiles would be her friend again. He hadn’t made any effort to talk to her in the last couple months; why would it be any different now? Still, she could hope. Not having Stiles in her life was a constant ache, an absence inside her that she couldn’t fill.

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Allison said, and Lydia walked into the kitchen to get herself a snack and an ice bag, pretending that she wasn’t listening to her friends’ conversation, and in reality, hanging on to every word.

Stiles shrugged. “It’s fine. We both kind of ended it mutually. I’m weirdly okay with it.”

Scott snorted. “I wonder why,” he muttered, and Stiles turned red.

“I don’t know,” Stiles continued. “We only dated for three months, but I feel like I should be more broken up over it.”

Allison shrugged, and Lydia grabbed her yogurt and her ice pack, intent on going back to her room, but Allison beckoned her over to the couch, and Lydia hesitantly walked over, sitting next to Scott on the end of the couch. She propped her socked foot up on the coffee table, arranging her ice pack on her knee, sighing in relief.

“Woah,” Stiles immediately said, sitting up straight, his face alarmed. Lydia lifted her head from the back of the couch, looking at him. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Lydia tilted her head, regarding him. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just a long rehearsal. My knees hurt.”

“Oh,” he said, slouching back a little. Lydia’s heart thumped, realizing that he cared about her still, even though they barely talked anymore.

Scott asked her how the new show was going, and she told them about rehearsal, trying the whole time not to focus on Stiles’s eyes on her. Allison took over the conversation, complaining about one of her bio labs, and Lydia briefly looked over at Stiles. The light from the window backlit him, a soft halo of white shining around his head, making his hair lighter, the shadows of his jaw more pronounced. His eyes met hers, briefly, and she looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring, but not before she saw his eyes. They were soft in the light, laced with concern, probably for her knee— but the emotion that used to permeate his gaze, the amount of care and fondness that had overwhelmed her whenever he used to look at her—that was gone. And Jesus, Lydia couldn’t think of anything she wanted more, in that moment, than for him to look at her like that again.

***

March passed in a blur of ballet, _Wings of Wax_ shows and preliminary _Sleeping Beauty_ rehearsals. Lydia practiced in their living room while different combinations of their friends crowded around the kitchen table, studying for midterms— she helped Malia, Kira, and Stiles with their math, watched Scott and Allison quiz each other on Bio topics, and listened to Isaac rattle off different terms for one of his psych exams. It was nice having everyone here all the time; she liked seeing all of her friends, even if they were insanely busy— although, every time she met eyes with Stiles, her heart panged with possibilities and what ifs.

Before she knew it, all her friends were gone for spring break, and then _Wings of Wax_ shows began— Allison and Kira came to see her, and all Lydia could think of, seeing them at stage door, was Stiles standing here months and months ago, nervously clutching his bouquet— Stiles when he had come to see _The Nutcracker_ three times, two of those times going alone— Stiles, Stiles, _Stiles_ , taking up every space of her mind, his absence squeezing at her heart, forcing the air out of her lungs, making her wish desperately that she hadn’t been too scared, hadn’t forced him out of her life, because nothing had been right since she had thrown up her walls and kicked him out.

 _Sleeping Beauty_ rehearsals began as the April weather became warmer, the days longer, the sunlight balmier, but Lydia felt exactly the opposite— small, and cold, and hopeless. It seemed that the promising days of _Le Corsaire_ and _Nutcracker_ were gone, times when she had hope of getting solo parts, thought she might even get promoted to soloist at the end of the season, but all her directors seemed to remember were the dark days of _Artifact_ , because the last parts had been given out today for _Sleeping Beauty,_ and all Lydia had gotten were corps parts.

It had taken all of her willpower to maintain her composure in the brightly lit studio, surrounded by all the other dancers, the principals standing together and chatting aimlessly— obviously _they_ were dancing good parts. And she shouldn’t complain; there were other dancers who had gotten equal or worse assignments, but she couldn’t help the sinking feeling in her chest— another season as a corps dancer, another season in the background, another season standing _still_ , another failed chance to prove she could _do_ it, she could be a soloist, she could be center stage and be amazing.

She didn’t let herself cry until she got back to her apartment, changed from her ballet clothes into leggings and a big sweater; she curled up in a ball on her bed and let her dry sobs wrack her body, burying her head in her arms.

She cried until she ran out of tears; Allison had class late tonight, so there was no one to hear her. When she couldn’t cry anymore she sat up, breathing slowly, trying to calm herself down. She would be okay. She would work twice as hard this summer, prove she could handle the choreography, and when it came time for the modern ballets she would practice longer and harder, make sure she had every step down, every movement flawless. Hopefully she could get good parts in their first ballet of the season, and maybe she’d get to dance Dew Drop in _Nutcracker_ again, and then, _maybe_ , she would finally get that promotion—

Just thinking about _The_ _Nutcracker_ made her think about Stiles. How he had come and seen her dance, even on the night she had just done all three ensembles. That bouquet he’d gotten her the first time he’d seen her dance, when she’d done the pas de trois in _Le Corsaire_ — she’d taken one of those pale pink roses, pressed it between two of her heavy physics textbooks, left it on her bookshelf, as a reminder that he believed in her, thought she was incredible, knew she would make it one day. The night of the Christmas party flooded her memory, and she thought of the two of them, pressed together on the couch, her mind fuzzy with champagne and his eyes bright with adoration, and she remembered what he’d told her: “ _You would be amazing, because you’re amazing at everything you do.”_ How his eyes had looked in that moment, the thinly-masked pride and admiration and vehement faith that she would do those things—be a principal dancer, wow the company, wow the world. Behind all that, pure, unfaltering love, and maybe that’s why she had kissed him, because even if he didn’t say it, she knew that he loved her, and that should have been so terrifying— but it hadn’t been; it had just felt _right_ , until she had talked herself out of it, looked over the edge of the cliff she was ready to fling herself off of, second guessed her readiness to jump, and successfully eliminated him from every single aspect of her life. Because she loved him too— she realized that now. And the list of people in her life that she had loved, who had said they loved her before walking out of her life was long, too long for her to add to. She wasn’t going to screw up anything she loved again, after her dad walked away, after her relationship with Jackson imploded. She couldn’t watch that happen again. She wouldn’t make it through. She should have realized that in trying to save her relationship with Stiles she was condemning it to the exact fate she was afraid of, but she hadn’t, and she’d ruined it all. The last few months she had tried to get by without him— straightened her shoulders, raised her chin, and attempted to make her way through the season without him to fall back on for support. She had been in this industry since she was six, professionally since she was sixteen, and she’d done it by herself until now. Why did she suddenly need a guy to make it through the psychological battle ground that was professional dance? She shouldn’t. She _didn’t_. But she _could_ have it. That was what killed her— Stiles wouldn’t leave. Stiles would support her through it all, cheer her on through bad days and weeks, see her shows, always root for her. And the fact that she could have that, and didn’t, because she had been too scared to admit the magnitude of her feelings, been too scared of her past ghosts to consider a future— the possibilities and what ifs were what haunted her. The entire possibility that was having Stiles Stilinski in her life. Now she realized how much she wanted that— how much she wanted him in her life, and she was willing to risk it, risk it all just to be with him. But it was too late: she’d ruined everything at Christmas, and she wasn’t sure if it could ever be fixed.

She was ready to jump now, but she’d walked herself so far away from the cliff’s edge that she couldn’t find her way back.

When Allison found Lydia, she was crying again— because just now had she truly, irrevocably realized the depth of her feelings for Stiles, recognized exactly how much she had lost when she had pushed him away.

“Lydia, what the hell— what’s wrong?” Allison demanded, dropping her bag in the doorway and rushing into her friend’s room, sitting next to her on the bed and gathering the sobbing girl up in her arms. “What happened?”

Lydia buried her head in Allison’s shoulder, feeling suddenly foolish for being such a mess. “Rehearsal,” she choked out, swallowing her sobs, trying to steady her breathing. “I— they gave out the rest of the dance assignments, and I don’t have any not-ensemble parts.”

Allison swore quietly under her breath. “I’m sorry, Lydia. That _sucks_.”

Lydia shook her head slightly, her forehead still resting on Allison’s shoulder. “I’m so sick of _waiting_. Standing still and being passed over, again and again…” she shuddered, trying to suppress a fresh wave of tears. Then she thought of the other thing bothering her, and she couldn’t hold them back.

“What else?” Allison asked, reading her friend’s mind. Lydia didn’t know how to articulate exactly everything that had gone wrong, all the what-ifs racing through her mind, so she settled on one word, hoping Allison would understand: “Stiles.”

Allison squeezed her tighter, and Lydia couldn’t hold it back; she started sobbing again. “I ruined it _all,_ Allison,” she said, teary. “And I can’t… Not having him in my life is like this constant ache, this hole I can’t fill up.” She paused, shakily inhaling. “Because I think I’m in love with him.”

Allison seemed unfazed by Lydia’s confession; she had probably known that Lydia loved Stiles ages before the thought even crossed Lydia’s mind. Instead, she just hugged her friend tighter, before pulling away and giving her a sincere, sympathetic glance. “I’m gonna make you some hot chocolate,” Allison said. “Okay? I’ll be right back.”

Lydia nodded as her best friend stood up, looking at her sympathetically. “It’s gonna be okay, alright?” Allison assured her, before slowly leaving the room and retreating down the hall to the kitchen.

Lydia nodded her head at her friend’s words, but in this moment, it was hard to believe they were true.

***

Stiles was eating dinner when his phone rang.

He and Scott had made pasta, which was about the extent of Scott’s cooking expertise, and the two were sitting on their couch, steaming bowls in front of them. Stiles jumped a little when the cantina music from _Star Wars_ went off, his phone lighting up; no one ever called him, except his dad and sometimes Scott— and Lydia, before the whole Christmas party disaster. Her ringtone was different, anyway— she had Princess Leia’s theme.

Seeing as this was definitely not Lydia, Stiles begrudgingly picked up his phone— Scott was right next to him, and he really wasn’t in the mood to talk to his dad right now. His brow furrowed in confusion when he saw the name on the screen, though. _Allison_. Why would she be calling?

“Did you mean to call Scott?” Stiles asked after accepting the call, in lieu of greeting. He could hear her annoyed huff of breath on the other line.

“No, I meant to call you,” she said, and her voice was tense. What the hell was going on?

“What’s wrong, Allison?” Stiles asked, and Scott perked up at the sound of his girlfriend’s name.

“You need to come over here right now,” she informed him, and the dead serious tone of her voice alerted him that she wasn’t messing around. “It’s Lydia.”

Stiles blanched, his body freezing. “What? What happened? Is she okay?”

“Physically? Yes. Other than that, no.”

“What the hell _happened_ , Allison?” Stiles demanded, horrible possibilities rushing through his head.

“I can’t explain,” Allison said, and Stiles started to protest, but she cut him off. “No, just get over here. _Now_.”

Stiles stood wordlessly, looking blankly at his phone, which alerted him that the call had been ended. He turned to Scott, who looked extremely confused, and told him, “It’s Lydia. I… I have to go.”

Scott nodded as Stiles pulled on his jacket hastily, grabbing his keys and racing out of the building. It generally took Stiles a good twenty minutes to walk from his apartment by the Fens to Lydia’s apartment on Mission Hill, but he was pounding on the girls’ door exactly eleven minutes after hanging up with Allison. After a second, Allison opened the door, ushering him into the apartment, and the second the door was closed, he turned on her.

“What the hell is going on?” Stiles demanded, looking at Allison expectantly. Allison sighed, fixing him with a look.

“Lydia’s a wreck,” Allison informed him. “She’s been having really rough rehearsals lately, and she got really crappy parts for _Sleeping Beauty_ , and she’s having a big self-doubting breakdown.”

Stiles blinked at her, confused. “Okay, but then why am I here?”

“Because part of the reason she’s having a breakdown is because you won’t talk to her anymore,” Allison said impatiently. Stiles’s jaw dropped. Lydia was that affected by his absence from her life? He thought that was what she had wanted— for him to leave her alone. Evidently, he was wrong. But she was the one who had pushed him away at Christmas. He opened his mouth to tell Allison this, but she shook her head, cutting him off. “I know about Christmas,” she said. “And after that, you got a new girlfriend and didn’t talk to Lydia for _months_ , and it wrecked her.”

“Allison, she pushed _me_ away,” Stiles said angrily. “She kicked me out and wouldn’t look me in the eye after she kissed me. I thought she wanted me gone.”

“I’m not saying it’s all your fault,” Allison insisted. “And I’m not saying it’s not Lydia’s fault either. But she is a _mess_ , and she needs you, so you need to go fix whatever the hell broke between you two.”

Stiles nodded wordlessly, and Allison pushed him down the hallway. There were three doors down there— the bathroom, an empty bedroom that was probably Allison’s, judging by the fact that Scott’s sweatshirt was draped over the side of the bed, and a closed door that must have belonged to Lydia.

He knocked softly before pushing the door open, hesitantly stepping into her room. He’d never been in her room before. Her walls were a soft purple, the far wall covered in photos of her in costumes, pairs of pointe shoes dangling among the collage. There were recent ones— some from _Le Corsaire_ , and _The Nutcracker_ , but Stiles could see some where she looked no older than three or four, with chubby baby cheeks and a wispy little bun perched on top of her head, wearing sparkly little tutus covered in sequins and ribbon roses. There was a dance poster and the periodic table hanging next to her vanity, which was covered in a variety of show makeup and bobby pins. Her white practice tutu was on the floor next to her desk chair, spread out in a perfect circle, and there was a leotard and tights hastily crumpled in a ball, laying right next to it. Her dance bag was thrown angrily next to her closet, where Stiles could see a rainbow of clothing hanging neatly inside. Her bedspread was a deeper magenta, a scattering of white butterflies fluttering across the bottom. And in the middle of the bed, curled up in a ball, strawberry blonde hair spread out in a halo around her head, was Lydia, her body softly shaking with sobs. Stiles had tried to get over this girl, tried desperately to force her out of his mind and out of his heart, but clearly all those efforts had been in vain, because standing in the entrance to her room, seeing her so distraught and lost, his heart felt like it was shattering.

“Lydia?” he asked quietly, and her head snapped up, her eyes red and puffy, expression alarmed at hearing him in her room.

“Stiles, what are you doing here?” she asked, sitting up and sniffling.

“Allison called me,” he explained. “She said you… weren’t okay. Um, can I…” He stepped further into the room, gesturing to the edge of the bed. “Can I sit?”

Lydia just blinked at him for a second, before nodding, rubbing her thumb under her eyes to wipe away stray tears. Stiles hesitantly sat down next to her, unsure how to proceed.

“So, uh… What’s going on?” Stiles asked, nervously playing with his hands. Lydia wouldn’t meet his gaze, but even though her eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy, her hair all mussed, Stiles thought he’d never seen anyone as beautiful as she was.

Lydia shrugged, shaking her head. “We got the rest of the casting for _Sleeping Beauty_ today, and I got all ensemble parts. So it looks like I’m going to be a corps dancer again next season.”

“You don’t know that,” he said gently, trying to be optimistic, but apparently that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“No, I do,” she snapped, “because I know how this industry works, not you. And I know that after I couldn’t get _any_ of the choreography in _Artifact_ right, and after dancing all ensemble parts in _Wings_ _of_ _Wax_ and _Sleeping_ _Beauty,_ after they had me learn all the soloist parts in _Nutcracker_ and _Le Corsaire_ and _still_ passed me over, I know I’m not getting promoted.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping, and she seemed to deflate. “Which is fine, I guess. I’ll work harder, and maybe next year they’ll make me a soloist.” She shook her head. “It’s just aggravating. I feel like I could be so much better, do so much _more_ , but instead I’m stuck in place.” She swiped at her eyes again. “And I love being a dancer with Boston Ballet, and I know I should just be grateful in the first place that I’m in the company, that I shouldn’t want more, but—”

“No, don’t say that,” Stiles insisted, and Lydia finally looked up, meeting his eyes. They were so sad, and Stiles wanted nothing more than to make that all go away; to fix everything that was broken, take away everything that was hurting her. It made his chest ache to think that _he_ was the reason behind that pain.

“You are incredible,” he assured her. “And one day, you’re going to be the best damn principal dancer in that company. Don’t doubt that,” he said. “And don’t feel guilty for wanting more, because you deserve more.”

She ducked her head down briefly, before meeting his eyes again, and when she looked at him, she was smiling ever so slightly, her lips pressed together, her eyes slightly hopeful. Something tugged at his heart, knowing he’d made her feel even the slightest bit better.

“You said that on Christmas,” she said, and Stiles froze, thinking back to that disastrous night. “Stiles, I… I’m so sorry about that night,” she continued, and he remained stock-still, just watching her. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away, after… I was scared. I was so scared of ruining our friendship, and I didn’t want to mess anything up, make you walk out of my life.” Stiles remained frozen, listening to her talk. _That’s_ why she had freaked out? Because she was scared of messing up their friendship? And now he felt horrible and guilty, because he had done _exactly_ what she was most terrified of; he had left her, just like her dad and her jackass ex-boyfriend, and how could he ever make it up to her now—?

“Lydia, I…” He started, still unsure how to articulate how sorry he was. “I… Jesus, I thought you _wanted_ me to leave you alone. I thought that’s why you shoved me away like that. I didn’t know, I didn’t realize—”

“I didn’t tell you,” she said tearily, blinking rapidly again to keep her tears from spilling. “I should have, but you were with Malia, and you wouldn’t text me, and I thought you hated me, and I didn’t blame you, so I just—”

“I do _not_ hate you,” he insisted vehemently. “God, I could _never_ hate you. Don’t— don’t ever think that.”

She nodded, her green eyes still watery, and Stiles wanted so bad to fix whatever was hurting her, make her pain go away. Without really thinking about it, he moved closer to her on the bed, pulling her into his arms, smoothing his hand over her back. She crumpled in his arms, her head resting in the crook of his neck, her hair spilling over his shoulder. She smelled like vanilla and something else, something flowery— having her this close to him was intoxicating, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her forever, never let her out of his arms, stay here in this moment for eternity. Her arms were around him too, and he rubbed gentle circles in her back with his hand, trying to calm her down, stop the heartbroken sobs shaking her body.

“I’m sorry, Lydia,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t ever leave me like that again,” she pleaded into his chest, and he squeezed her tighter, shaking his head.

“I won’t. God, if you want me around, I’m not going anywhere.”

Her sobs quieted, but Stiles didn’t let go, sensing that she still needed to be held. And he meant what he had said. As long as she wanted him, he would stay here, one hand on her back, the other smoothing through her hair, holding her until she felt strong enough to take on the world again. As long as Lydia Martin needed him, there was nothing in the entire freaking _galaxy_ that was going to pull him away from her.

 

**C: Valse**

Lydia smiled at the series of text messages waiting on her phone when she got out of rehearsal.

She had been leaving the studio with the other dancers after a long rehearsal when she had finally pulled out her phone, and her lock screen showed no less than thirteen missed text messages from Stiles (and one from Allison, asking if they could order chinese food for dinner). She scrolled through them all while she waited for the T, her smile growing wider and wider.

_So. I’m gonna make up for being a total jackass the past few months and not texting you at all by texting you excessively now. Hope that’s okay._

Lydia shook her head, biting back her grin, because he was so ridiculous. Her smile grew as she read through them all, him babbling about his day, his excessive amounts of homework, his absolutely crazy Econ professor. She finally reached the bottom text, which read:

_For the record, I realize that the reason you’re not responding is definitely because you’re in rehearsal. So. How was rehearsal?_

She fought back her grin, not wanting to smile like a lunatic at her phone like some lovesick teenager while on public transit, but she wrote him back.

_Pretty good. We’re rehearsing two ballets right now, and I got a couple decent parts for The Concert. They said they might be switching around some parts for Sleeping Beauty, so I’m trying to remain optimistic._

His reply came immediately. _That’s amazing! See, I told you you’d get more good parts._

Lydia bit her lip, reading his message over. This felt so nice, so _normal,_ and while it was a far cry from everything returning exactly to how it was before Christmas, this gave Lydia hope that they could get there one day. Part of her brain nagged that she wasn’t ever going to get back to being Stiles’s friend if she was still in love with him, but she tamped that part down, concluding to worry about it later. Stiles didn’t feel that way about her anymore, she was fairly positive, after Malia and everything. She would learn to get over her feelings, and then they could go back to the comfortable friendship they’d had before.

Flipping back to Allison’s request for chinese takeout for dinner, an idea struck Lydia— she, selfishly, really wanted to see Stiles, and she doubted Allison would protest to Scott coming over (if he wasn’t over their apartment already), so she texted him again, asking if he and Scott wanted to come over for dinner. He immediately responded with a definite yes, and Lydia texted her roommate to forewarn her.

She spent an exorbitant amount of time picking out an outfit for a dinner that was literally going to consist of Chinese takeout— not to mention, she shouldn’t be worrying about impressing Stiles, she should be be focusing on forgetting about her romantic feelings for him and instead rebuilding their friendship. She finally settled on jeans and a white, high collared blouse, throwing a green cardigan on over it and tugging her hair out of its bun, smoothing her fingers through her waves. Casual, but still presentable.

She vaguely heard the doorbell ring, before Allison called down the hall, “Lydia, they’re here!” Trying to calm her racing heart, she carefully walked down the hallway. Her stomach twisted with nerves, which felt stupid, because she was the one who had invited him here, but the last time she had seen Stiles— she’d been a mess, emotionally, and she wasn’t used to people seeing her that vulnerable. She felt like something momentous had passed between them, when she had told him not to leave her and he had promised he never would again. But Lydia wasn’t quite sure how to address it, this huge, monumental bearing of her soul that he had been witness to, so she just walked down the hall, intent on never bringing it up again, and just moving forward from there.

She was determined to act like everything was normal, but apparently, she was much better at that than Stiles was.

He was still standing in the doorway with Scott when she entered the living room, shrugging off his coat and smiling at her innocently. “Hi,” he said, his grin wide, and when she caught his gaze, his eyes were full of care and determination.

“So, Chinese food?” Allison said, returning from the kitchen with takeout menus in her hands, pulling Lydia’s attention away from Stiles.

They sat in the living room and ate their food while chatting, but Lydia could barely focus on the small talk they were making. Stiles was sitting right next to her on the couch— literally inches away— and every time he would shift and their legs would brush, or he would move his arm and gently bump her, she felt like someone had shocked her. She was trying to act casually, trying to not seem like she was hopelessly in love with the boy sitting next to her, but based on the looks Allison kept throwing her way, she clearly wasn’t doing a good job. Stiles must have felt awkward too, because every time they would accidentally touch he would jump a foot in the air. Lydia wasn’t sure why— he had chosen to sit next to her; it wasn’t like he didn’t want to be near her, right? And he kept smiling at her, his eyes all warm and caring— maybe he was just nervous around her after her breakdown. That made sense, sort of.

Allison asked Lydia about rehearsal, and she told them all about the upcoming shows, momentarily forgetting about Stiles sitting mere inches away. April and May were always chaotic months, because they would do two shows at the same time, alternating weekends— most years they did _Swan Lake_ , but this year they were switching to _Sleeping_ _Beauty_ , in addition to a modern ballet, Robbins’s _The_ _Concert_. Stiles asked about dates so he could come see it, and Lydia smiled widely, trying to calm down her racing heart as she told him the schedule.

When they left later, Stiles paused in the doorway, playing with his hands awkwardly, his smile adorably crooked. “Uh, I’ll see you later,” he said, his eyes shining in the hallway lights, and Lydia grinned, nodding her head.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” she said, and he grinned at her one last time, before following Scott down the hall, the door swinging shut quietly behind them.

Lydia turned around, a little smile tugging at her lips, only to see Allison, grinning at her in a way that Lydia could only describe as manically.

“What?” Lydia demanded, defensive, but Allison just raised her eyebrows primly, her smirk growing wider.

“You are so in love with him,” Allison said casually, and Lydia almost groaned.

“I’ve already told you that,” Lydia said. “But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel that way about me, so we’re just friends. It’s fine.”

Allison arched an eyebrow at her friend, doubtful. “If you say so.”

“I say so,” Lydia insisted. “We’re just friends. I’ll get over it.” She gave her friend a definitive nod, before turning to the hallway, retreating back to her room.

If Lydia had been paying attention, she would have seen the very dramatic eye roll Allison had shot at her.

***

“So,” Scott started, and Stiles should have known then he was in trouble.

“What?” Stiles groaned, tipping his head back and avoiding his best friend’s intent gaze. Scott didn’t say anything, so Stiles finally looked over, only to see his friend’s smirking face, illuminated by the streetlight above them. Stiles chose to ignore Scott, continuing walking— it was late, and cold, and they were only halfway back to their apartment.

“What do you think?” Scott finally asked, and Stiles sighed.

“Gee, Scott, I don’t know. What would you possibly want to grill me on, other than how I am completely, obviously in love with Lydia Martin?”

“I’m not going to _grill_ you,” Scott defended. “I just was going to ask. So you _are_ still in love with her?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “What, have I stopped breathing? Of _course_ I’m still in love with her. I have been literally since I met her.”

“Even during Malia?”

Stiles gave his best friend a weary look. “Scott, you already know the answer to that question.”

Scott paused, considering, as they kept walking down the sidewalk. “So what are you gonna do?” he finally asked, looking back at Stiles.

Stiles shrugged his shoulders. “What do you mean, what am I gonna do? I’m gonna keep doing the same thing I’ve been doing for the past eight months. Minus the whole ‘ignoring her because I thought she didn’t want to talk to me’ part, but other than that—”

“You’re not going to tell her?” Scott questioned.

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Because you _love_ her.”

“Yeah, so? She doesn’t feel that way about me.”

“You don’t know that,” Scott said, shrugging.

“ _Yeah_ , I do,” Stiles insisted, looking away from his best friend. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. She’s having a rough time with dance, she’s already hurt from my radio silence for the past few months— she needs me to be her friend right now. I don’t need to add any complications to that, I just need to be there for her.”

“But, Stiles—”

“No, Scott, no buts!” he exclaimed. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his voice. “It’s not that simple. We can’t all just snap our fingers and get our fairytale ending, like you and Allison. Okay? I’m fine with it. I know she doesn’t feel the same way about me that I do about her. But I _love_ her, so I’m gonna be there for her. I’ll be whatever she needs. And if she needs me to just be her friend, that’s okay with me.” He exhaled, sticking his hands in his pockets, looking at the sidewalk ahead. “She’s under a lot of stress right now with dance, and I’m not adding to that. I can be just her friend.”

Scott shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Stiles said, definitively nodding his head.

“Well, I hope you’re right,” Scott said, glancing at his best friend. “Because to me, this just sounds like it’s going to end really badly.”

Stiles chose to ignore that comment. Lydia needed him to be her friend. _Just_ her friend. And what she needed was most important to him. He could do that— forget about how he felt about her, focus on being her support system, her cheerleader, the person to make her smile when she felt like crying. He could be her friend, and forget that he was absolutely, irreversibly, head over heels in love with her.

He hoped, anyway.

***

By the end of May, the weather was finally warm enough to pack away the heavy coats and snow boots, and the days were longer, sunlight stretching out for hours, and Lydia no longer made her commute to the Opera House for night shows in the dark. The end of May seemed to bring about the end of everything— _Sleeping Beauty_ was over, _The Concert_ was wrapping up, everyone was finishing finals, and before she knew it, her friends were all packing boxes, shipping things home, and she was on her own again. Allison would stay the summer in the city with her— her dad moved around too much for her to go to one definitive place, but Lydia had the summer off as well, and they were already planning a trip to France, to visit some of Allison’s extended family. The summer was never as lonely as winter break was for Lydia, but Stiles had left for California with Scott and Isaac a week ago, and already Lydia felt a sharp pang in her chest, thinking of his absence.

They had finally gotten back to that place they were before Lydia had ruined everything, despite the fact that she was still in love with him. She tried to forget about her feelings, bury them deep down, but it was proving difficult— Stiles was ingrained in her; he had become a part of her very being, and she wasn’t sure how to stop loving him. So instead she ignored it, tried to calm her erratic heart and steady her breathing when he was around her. He seemed completely oblivious, though with the looks Allison kept shooting the pair of them, Lydia was surprised he hadn’t figured it out yet.

Today was the last rehearsal of the season— they only had one more show tonight, and then they were free for the summer. It wasn’t like Lydia wouldn’t dance over their break— there were workshops, and other projects, and she almost always came back and helped with the Boston Ballet School summer programs, which she had done when she was little— but the end of a season was always a little bittersweet. They were down to the last fifteen or so minutes of rehearsal, and they weren’t even doing anything structured anymore— Lydia was running part of the choreography from _The Concert_ with Hannah, Lauren, and Caroline, perfecting it for their final show tonight, while their instructors stood at the front of the brightly lit studio, talking quietly.

Lydia tried to ignore the reason she felt jittery, because looking at all their instructors, quietly conversing, made her remember what today was unofficially called— promotion day. And she knew, deep down, she wasn’t getting promoted, so if she didn’t get her hopes up now, she wouldn’t feel as crushed later.

They called up two soloist dancers first, and the wide grins on their faces indicated they had indeed been made principal dancers. Lydia ignored the jealousy bubbling in her stomach, focusing instead on her choreography. Maybe if her instructors saw how hard she was working now, they’d keep her in mind for a promotion next season.

Next was three of the second soloists, and then they started calling up corps dancers— _focus_ , she snapped at herself, extending her leg higher, higher, ignoring the names they were calling out— but then Lauren got called, and the quartet stopped.

Lydia, Hannah, and Caroline shot their friend hopeful smiles, as the other girl almost skipped to the front of the room, before turning to each other. “Should we keep going?” Hannah suggested, and Lydia could see the pain behind her eyes, the jealousy and bitterness and determination to do better, prove herself to the company and the world— she recognized that look in her eyes, because it was the same one Lydia saw in her own every time she looked in a mirror. And she was sure, in this moment, that Hannah and Caroline could see all of those emotions in her gaze. She was happy for Lauren, but Jesus, right now— she would do _anything_ to be in the other girl’s shoes.

“Yeah,” Lydia said quietly. “Let’s go from the beginning of the second part of the phrase.”

They took their places, continued dancing, and Lydia turned flawlessly, went into a perfect arabesque, felt every muscle in her body strain and twist with every movement, focused solely on the steps ahead of her. One step at a time— that’s all she could do. Keep moving forward, one step at a time, and eventually she would make it.

She was so focused on raising her leg higher, pointing her toe further, that she almost didn’t notice Hannah and Caroline had stopped until she was almost walking into them.

“Why did you—” she began to ask, but Caroline was looking at her, her expression unreadable, her lips tugging in a bittersweet smile.

“Lydia, they just called your name,” her friend said, and Lydia’s stomach dropped.

“What?” she asked, her eyes wide. Hannah had a look on her face that almost matched Caroline’s. “They did?”

Hannah nodded at her, nudging her towards the front of the room. Lauren was already up there, with one other company dancer, and Lydia walked to the front slowly, the studio around her fuzzy and almost dreamlike.

She could barely focus on individual words as the instructors told them they were being promoted to second soloists, congratulations, their hard work was very appreciated, thank you for being a part of this company, et cetera. Lydia felt weightless as she moved back to their small groups, ran through their choreography one more time for the show, posed for a picture after rehearsal with the other promoted dancers for the Boston Ballet Instagram. She took off her pointe shoes and packed up her bag in a haze, and it wasn’t until she was walking into her apartment that it really, truly hit her.

They had noticed her. They had moved her up. Next season, she was going to be a _second soloist._ It was still a far ways away from principal dancer, but she was on her way there. She had been promoted once, she could do it again. She could prove how spectacular she was at this, and they could move her up even more. She wasn’t going to be stuck in the background as a corps dancer her entire career. One day, she was going to make it. She’d always told herself that, but Lydia had never truly believed it until this moment, right now.

She needed to tell someone this before she actually burst.

Allison wasn’t home— there was a note on the counter saying she’d gone to the gym, she’d be back by dinner time. Without even thinking, Lydia pulled out her cell phone, picking out the contact she wanted and hitting dial.

“Hellooo,” Stiles answered, drawn out and friendly, his voice like warm caramel, and Lydia grinned from ear to ear at the sound. “Lydia? You there?” he asked, and she snapped back to reality.

“Yes. I’m here,” she responded, her grin growing even wider. “And I have news.”

“News? Oh god, good news or bad news?”

“Good,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “Definitely good.”

“What’s up?” he asked, and Lydia squeezed her eyes closed, her smile almost hurting, it was so wide.

“I got promoted.”

There was a split second of silence on the other line, before Stiles let out the loudest, most enthusiastic whoop she had ever heard in her life. “Lydia!” he almost screamed. “Oh my god!”

“I’m officially a second soloist,” she told him, and he laughed in delight.

“That’s incredible!” he responded, his voice clear, and then more muffled, like he’d turned away from the phone, “Scott! Dad, Melissa! Lydia got her promotion!”

Lydia heard whoops of joy on the other end of the line, presumably Scott, before Stiles’s voice sounded in her ear again, clear as day and overcome with pride and happiness.

“Lydia, I am so— that’s amazing. That’s so amazing. _You’re_ amazing. I’m so happy for you.”

Lydia was glad they weren’t face to face, because she could feel a deep blush creeping over her face at his words, and she really didn’t need him to see that. “Thank you,” she responded, still grinning.

“Okay, so how did it happen? Tell me everything.”

Lydia was still on the phone with him when Allison walked in the door two hours later, although they weren’t talking about her promotion anymore. Allison raised a questioning eyebrow, and Lydia’s jaw dropped, looking at the clock. She had to eat, then get back to the Opera House.

“Stiles, I have to go,” she told him reluctantly. “I have to get ready for my last show.”

“Of course,” he responded. “Good luck. No, break a leg— don’t _actually_ break a leg, obviously.” He was rambling again.

“I’ll talk to you later,” she interrupted, and he told her the same, before the call disconnected.

Lydia turned to look at her best friend, who had a smirk and knowing expression on her face. Lydia _so_ did not want to get into how she was obviously still in love with Stiles, even after a month and a half of trying to get over him. It didn’t matter, anyway. She would tell Allison about being made a second soloist, the other girl would forget about Lydia’s feelings for the aforementioned boy, and she would worry about Stiles later.

Allison opened her mouth to say something, but instead, Lydia cut her off.

“Allison. Guess what?”

***

Summer passed much too quickly for Lydia’s liking, and before she knew it, school was beginning again, and the parade of students hauling belongings in and out of their apartment building commenced. Malia and Kira had renewed their lease, same as Allison and Lydia, and the four girls had asked (made) the boys come over to help haul boxes back and forth.

Lydia and Allison’s apartment needed very little unpacking— both girls had stayed in Boston for most of the summer, whereas Kira and Malia had both gone home for the warmer months. Already, Lydia missed the long, sunlit days, the hours spent sprawled out on the beach, the few math classes she’d taken this summer, chipping away at that degree, the two weeks abroad she and Allison had spent in France— they’d even all gone to California for a week, to see Scott, Stiles, and Isaac, complete with a tour of their hometown, introductions to Stiles’s dad and Scott’s mom, who were probably the cutest couple Lydia had ever seen, and trips to the beautiful Northern California beaches, where Lydia had made her friends take artsy pictures of her dancing. “I’m a soloist now,” she had explained to them. “I have to step up my Instagram game.” Allison had laughed, but Isaac and Kira willingly took photos of her, with the rest of her friends watching from the side. Lydia hadn’t missed the awed look on Stiles’s face.

While their vacations had been great, Lydia’s favorite part of the summer was probably the weeks of Boston Ballet School’s summer program. Helping all the little girls, encouraging them— they were so bright, so happy and hopeful, untarnished by this brutal business, and Lydia hoped that she could help them retain some of that untainted faith if they chose to pursue careers in this field. She told them all about herself, how hard she worked, how she got to be a soloist now, and she told them to keep working, to never give up, to be determined and have hope, because someday, if they believed in themselves, they would get to be where she was. She told them to take it easy on themselves too— they were only human, and sometimes they would struggle. It all sounded cheesy, and the older girls had grinned at her when she had told them, disbelief evident in their faces, but no one had ever told Lydia those things when she was younger. Teachers, coaches, choreographers— they had always told her work harder, be better, prove you can do it _perfectly_ , rare praise peppered in with a vast field of criticism; sometimes, she wondered if she’d had someone to tell her that she was only human, that it was impossible to live up to some made up, golden standard— maybe she would have been gentler with herself. Maybe she wouldn’t be as beaten and battered as she was now.

As sad as she was to see the warm days of summer waning, Lydia was beyond excited for the beginning of the new season. She was a _soloist_ now. A second soloist, granted, but a soloist nonetheless, and she could do so much _more_ now. She could dance the lead in a show for a Saturday matinee, she could do duets and trios with principal dancers, she could have a wide array of solos in headlining Saturday night shows. She could even dance the Grand Pas from _Nutcracker_. It was a silly dream, probably, to dance the piece that had inspired her to become a ballerina, but thinking about the Sugar Plum Fairy, her music, her costumes, her choreography— Lydia’s body buzzed in excitement, the auspicious prospects of this coming season, and she started the year feeling better and more confident about her career than she had in years.

“Where do you want this?” Isaac asked, dumping a very large duffel bag on the living room floor of Kira and Malia’s apartment.

“You can leave it there; I’ve got it,” Kira said, going to put a new box of dishes on the kitchen counter.

“I am so jealous of you two right now,” Malia grumbled, dropping two full bags of stuff on the ground, shooting a glare in Lydia and Allison’s direction. The two of them were sitting on Malia and Kira’s couch, in front of the open window, basking in the summer breeze. Lydia had made it very clear that she was not moving any boxes up and down the treacherous stairs of their apartment building. Lydia glanced up from her phone at Malia’s words, where she had just ordered her newest batch of pointe shoes to start the season off.

“I just spent eight hundred dollars on new pointe shoes, so I wouldn’t be so jealous,” Lydia insisted. Kira’s jaw almost hit the floor, as did the box in her hands. “Boston Ballet pays me back for them,” she explained. “But I still have to order them all.”

“Are they special second soloist pointe shoes?” Stiles asked, pushing a box across the floor with his foot.

“That’s not a thing, so no,” Lydia replied primly.

“How is being a second soloist so far?” Kira asked, eyes bright, and Lydia shrugged.

“The same so far. We haven’t started rehearsing for shows yet; we’re just doing company classes right now.”

“Just wait, come December, you’ll be starring as the Sugar Plum Fairy in _The Nutcracker_ and dancing the grand pas every night,” Stiles insisted, and Lydia laughed. Scott walked back in the apartment door with the last two bags, and he shook his head in disbelief at his friend.

“Is it just me, or is Stiles not speaking English?” Scott asked the room.

Isaac nodded. “Don’t worry, it’s not just you. He’s speaking ballet to impress Lydia.”

“Sometimes I can’t believe we’ve gotten to a point where all the things I just said in that sentence make complete sense,” Stiles admitted, but Lydia was distracted, trying to stop the blush creeping up her cheeks from what Isaac had just said.

“This is the last of it,” Scott told the girls, and Kira smiled gratefully at him.

“Thank you so much, guys,” she said.

“Anytime,” Scott replied, grin wide. Stiles grimaced in a manner that suggested he would not be open to more manual labor at any time.

The boys left, and Allison and Lydia went back across the hall to their already-unpacked apartment. Lydia could sense the look on her friend’s face before she could see it.

“ _What_ , Allison?” Lydia sighed, giving her friend a pointed glare. Allison shot back an exasperated look.

“What is with you and Stiles?” Allison asked, and Lydia rolled her eyes. “Do not say _nothing_ , Lydia, I have eyes,” Allison continued.

Lydia shrugged. “We’re really good friends,” she said, which, technically, was true. Over the summer they had just gotten closer— they texted almost every day, and facetimed at least three times a week, and they’d been practically inseparable while everyone was in California. There was just the tiny little problem that Lydia was still completely in love with him, despite her efforts to ignore her feelings. She’d finally come to terms with the fact that the way she felt about him wasn’t going away anytime soon, but she was trying to move past that. She loved being friends with Stiles. He sent her goofy snapchats and made her laugh and pulled her back when she went too far down the rabbit hole of self doubt, and if that was how she had to have him in her life, exclusively as her friend, then so be it. She would deal.

The problem was, he was making it so _hard_ for her to forget she had feelings for him. Everytime she turned around, he was doing something sweet for her, like sending her endearing texts, giving her his flannel when she was cold— the other day he’d given her a _foot massage_ because her arches were killing her. And every time he did something sweet like that, the what-ifs of being in a relationship with Stiles taunted her, dancing around in her mind. It was like he was slowly torturing her on purpose.

“You’re in love with each other, and you’re both idiots,” Allison said succinctly, shrugging at her friend. Lydia immediately opened her mouth to protest, but Allison shot her a withering look. “Lydia, you’re wearing his shirt.”

Lydia glanced down, realizing this accusation was true. Stiles had lent her one of his flannels in California, and she had conveniently forgotten to give it back. It was soft, and comfy, and it smelled like him. She loved it, and wore it often. Stiles didn’t seem to mind.

“Just because I’m in love with him doesn’t mean he’s in love with me,” Lydia said quietly. Allison’s expression softened, and she gave her friend a sympathetic look.

“Lydia, I love you,” Allison started, “and you are the smartest person I know, but when it comes to Stiles, you are _so oblivious._ ”

Lydia’s jaw dropped in mock outrage, and Allison laughed at her friend. “He obviously still has feelings for you!” she added.

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know that.”

Allison raised her eyebrows. “Well then why don’t you ask him?” she moved closer to her friend, her eyes laced with concern. “Because, Lydia, it is causing me physical _pain_ to see you two like this.”

Lydia looked directly at her best friend, feeling small again. “I can’t,” she started, staring right into Allison’s eyes. “Because right now, we’re friends, and it’s great. But Allison—” she took a deep breath, meeting her friend’s eyes. “If I let myself hope that he feels the same way about me, I’m going to drive _myself_ crazy. And I can’t lose him again. I almost messed everything up for good once. I can’t do that again.” She looked away, shrugging, hugging her arms to herself. “After everyone else I’ve lost… I can’t go through that with him.”

Allison’s expression melted, and she grabbed Lydia’s hand, squeezing it. “He’s not Jackson, Lydia,” she said. “And he’s not your dad. That boy’s not going anywhere.”

Lydia squeezed Allison’s hand back, wanting more than anything to throw away her fears and listen to her best friend. She knew that Stiles wasn’t anything like the other people that had left her, but still, deep down, she was scared. She was terrified of losing him, messing everything up again— at this point, wasn’t it safer to just stay where she was, continue being friends with him, and not risk losing him again? She almost hadn’t made it through last season without him. She wasn’t about to put that at risk now, when sometimes she felt like he was the only thing keeping her above water. And Stiles just wanted to be her friend. If she tried to tell him how she felt, it would just inevitably complicate things. She could be just his friend. She’d been doing that for months now. Eventually she would get over it. Maybe. Regardless— her friendship with Stiles meant too much. She couldn’t risk not having him in his life, see him slip through her fingers again. So she would stay right here, be his friend, and that would be enough.

Her subconscious nagged that really, just being his friend would never be enough, but Lydia had always been good at pretending.

***

Senior year had made Tuesday night dinners morph into Tuesday afternoon study sessions followed by dinners, because everyone was swimming in schoolwork. Lydia had somehow become the unofficial study counselor for her friends, as she was currently sitting on their couch, helping Malia learn calculus and Scott develop his thesis statement at the same time. Allison was working on a project outline for her Environmental Studies class, Isaac was sprawled on the floor, staring down his laptop in aggravation, and Kira was asleep in one of their armchairs, her textbook hanging open in her lap.

“You can’t have variables in your outside bounds of integration, Malia, or the problem won’t have a definitive answer,” Lydia tried to explain. The other girl groaned in aggravation, staring at the double integrals in front of her like they had personally offended her.

“I am going to fail and not graduate because I can’t do math,” Malia grumbled.

“I’m not going to let you fail,” Lydia insisted. “You’ll get it.” Scott forked over his essay outline again, and Lydia surveyed it. “This looks good, but I don’t think this point really relates to your thesis,” she told him, underlining one of his bullet points. “Try to tie it back into your overall argument.” Scott nodded, taking the notebook back from her.

Stiles groaned from the kitchen island, where he had papers spread over the entire surface. “What?” Lydia asked. The pointe shoes in her lap that she should have been sewing laid long forgotten— she was in tutor mode now.

“It’s this case study,” Stiles said. He walked over to her, handing over the files. “These three high school boys are accused of beating up a woman in a park, and she can’t remember anything, so I’m supposed to prove that the boys are guilty. But these timelines don’t match up at all. See?” he handed over a timeline he’d drawn out, detailing the victim’s walk home from work through a park, complete with the time she left and the time she was attacked, as well as the timeline of the kids’ whereabouts. “There’s photos of the kids— here—” he handed her grainy photos of a mob of high school boys in evidently the same park, the suspects rowdy and probably drunk. “But it doesn’t match up— this was taken before the woman was attacked— but the time stamp on this doesn’t give them enough time to get over to where the woman was attacked, on the other side of the park. So then they couldn’t have done it, but if they didn’t, who did? They all confessed guilty, but this doesn’t physically give them the time to beat up that woman.”

Lydia studied the picture in her hand, looking at the faces of the boys. He would do this a lot— call her up with a case study from his classes, where he was stuck on one detail, unable to solve the case past that. Stiles was way better at figuring these things out, but most of the time he just needed to sound things off of her, get one idea and then unravel the whole thing.

“These are the boys?” she asked, nodding at the faces in the grainy photos.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, pointing out two of the faces. Lydia gave him a look.

“I thought you said there were three.”

“Yeah, there are, the third’s face isn’t in it—” he had been pointing to a third body, half of a grey hoodie visible, but his finger dropped, and he looked at her. “Wait.”

“That’s not him,” she supplied. He nodded.

“They’re covering for him, in their confession. They’re not a unit. The other two are innocent, and the third— he did it by himself,” Stiles said, realization dawning on his face, and he looked at Lydia, his eyes wide and amazed. “Oh my god— Lydia, you are so smart I could _kiss_ you right now.”

Lydia froze, because there was nothing she wanted more and less, all at the same time.

“Do not kiss me,” she told him, body stiff, and Stiles nodded.

“Not gonna. Not—” He tilted his head to the side, smiling ever so slightly, and his eyes were all soft and full of emotion, like the way he used to look at her, months and months ago; before she knew what had happened, he swooped down, sloppily pecking her on the cheek. “Did it anyway!” he said, his voice daring and exhilarated, and he grabbed the case papers from her hands, scrambling back to the island, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. Lydia sat frozen, the place where Stiles had kissed her on her cheek burning, and she could feel his lips there still, sure that a blush was creeping up her cheeks. God, she was so in love with this idiot. She tried to fight the smile tugging at her lips, but she couldn’t fend it off completely, and she smiled to herself, almost secretively, because the fact that Stiles had just kissed her on the _cheek_ was so sweet and endearing that she literally could not help herself.

Lydia did not miss the smirk Allison shot her from the other side of the room.

Stiles was the last to leave after dinner, so they sat together on the couch in comfortable silence, Lydia sewing her new pointe shoes, Stiles typing up his report on his case study. She sat cross-legged, her knee brushed up against his leg, his feet propped on the coffee table. It was calming and nerve-wracking at the same time, being so close to him, and she could hear his breathing, in sync with her heartbeats, pulling them together and grounding her. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice she kept staring at him, mesmerized by his amber eyes, his pursed lips, the way he kept drumming his long fingers against his jaw— she was fantasizing about his _hands_ while he was sitting a mere foot away— what was _wrong_ with her? A hazy memory flitted through her mind, tinged with champagne and soft lights— the last time they’d been alone in this room, sitting together on this couch had been when she had kissed him.

She looked back at the pointe shoes in her lap, determined to finish sewing them, trying to calm her now-racing heart— she picked up the needle, ready to finish her stitch.

“Done!” Stiles cried suddenly, and Lydia jumped, still on edge from before, completely startled from his outburst. The needle slipped, and she accidentally jabbed her finger with it.

“Ow,” she muttered, examining the pin prick in her index finger. The smug look of satisfaction melted off of Stiles’s face, and he turned to her, concern etched on his features.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Yes. I just stabbed my finger, but I’m… fine…”  she trailed off, because Stiles had grabbed her hand, examining her finger. Her heart jumped at the feeling of her hand in his— god, his hands were so big, so warm— her finger was barely injured, it didn’t even hurt anymore, and she tried to tell him that, but accidentally, she looked into his eyes, and she froze.

He was looking at her like he used to look at her, how he’d looked at her after he saw _Le_ _Corsaire_ , how he’d looked at her on Thanksgiving, how he’d looked at her before she had kissed him, almost a year ago. His eyes were soft, filled with light, gazing at her in wonder, but seeing that expression on his face again, thinking back to the days when he’d looked at her reverently and she’d brushed him off— it was like a knife to the gut, a punch to the stomach, the feeling of having all the air squeezed out of her lungs. Lydia had spent so long trying to accept that he was never going to look at her like that again, with the same meaning behind his gaze— seeing that shine in his eyes again was jarring, but also achingly familiar in a way that made Lydia so desperate to return to that time when he loved her. She wished so badly that she hadn’t been so scared, hadn’t been too late, that her feelings hadn’t taken too long to catch up. Because sometimes, being loved by Stiles felt like the only thing she still wanted in the world. All she wanted was for him to look at her like that every second of every day, and the fact that he never would again, never with the same emotion behind it, not with the same depth of love in those amber eyes— the look he was giving her now felt like a cruel joke, a slap in the face, a painful reminder that she _could_ have had that, and now she didn’t. And so she snapped.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she said quietly, breaking away from his gaze and pulling her hand out of his. His brow furrowed in confusion.

“What?” he asked. “What am I— how am I looking at you?”

Even when she was telling him to stop looking at her like that he looked at her like that, eyes clear as day, wide and innocent, and Lydia realized that he literally couldn’t _help_ it. She inhaled sharply, glancing back at him.

“Stop looking at me like you’re in love with me. It just keeps reminding me you’re not.”

She wasn’t sure why she said it. Maybe she couldn’t take it anymore. She was so in love with this boy, and every time he did something sweet or endearing, looked at her like he loved her again, told her she was incredible, she fell for him a little more. And she couldn’t _do_ it any more. She couldn’t sit here and hope her feelings would go away because she was scared of losing him. That wasn’t going to happen; she realized that now. She was sick of lying to herself, and to him. So she snapped at him instead, and his jaw literally fell open at her words.

“Wait,” Stiles said slowly, closing his laptop and placing it on the coffee table. “I’m sorry. What?”

Lydia sighed, suddenly too self conscious to look him in the eye. “Every time you look at me like that, it just reminds me that you don’t have feelings for me anymore, and that I missed my chance, and—”

“Missed your chance?” he said, his eyes wide. “I— Lydia, what are you saying?”

God, it wasn’t bad enough that her feelings weren’t reciprocated, now he was going to make her say it out loud?

“What do you _think_ , Stiles?” she demanded, standing up and crossing her arms angrily. “I’m in love with you, but you’re _not_ in love with me, and every time I see that _look_ in your eyes, I’m reminded that you _don’t_ feel the same about me, and it hurts!”

Stiles just gaped at her, and she tightened her arms around herself, feeling small and vulnerable and raw. She never talked about her feelings with people. If ballet had taught her anything, it was how to build a hard outer shell, how to lock away your emotions, how to pretend you were fine when really, you were screaming on the inside. And standing here, watching Stiles watch her, his jaw slack and his expression unreadable, Lydia felt just like that. Like inside, she was curled up and crying, but no one could hear her sobs.

Stiles shook his head slightly, like he was trying to shake himself out of a trance, before standing up and facing her, his arms hanging limply at his sides. She couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Lydia,” he said, and his voice was breathless in disbelief. She had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, and damn him and his stupid height; he was almost a whole head taller than her. His beautiful amber eyes were so _so_ soft, bursting with emotion: care, concern, adoration, fondness, and love— underneath it all, so, _so_ much love. His lips were curled up in the smallest smile, and Lydia’s heart stuttered. He looked like he was blown away by her mere presence, like the fact that she was in front of him right now was the most incredible thing in the world. “You love me?” he said softly, and she nodded wordlessly, caught in his eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to lie about it anymore; it was too painful.

“You don’t have to say anything, or feel sorry, or guilty,” Lydia quickly interjected. “I don’t want you to feel—” but she had to stop, because Stiles had dipped down, cupping her face in his hand and kissing her.

The first time she had kissed Stiles, it had been strong, almost aggressive, fueled by alcohol and lust and pent up feelings that she hadn’t even fully recognized herself— but this kiss was nothing like that. Stiles’s lips were soft against hers, gentle and almost hesitant, but he kissed her reverently, like she was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. She sighed into him, and her hands found their way into his hair, carding through the thick chestnut locks in the back, and his arms were around her, pulling her tight against his chest, his heartbeat reverberating through her bones, seeping into her, and she felt like, in this moment, this was really, truly where she belonged. Here, in Stiles’s arms.

He pulled away from her reluctantly, still bent down, their foreheads pressed together. “Lydia,” he said, and her heart swelled at the emotion in his voice. “In what _world_ do you think I’m not in love with you?” he asked quietly, and she looked up into his eyes, wondering how she ever could have doubted the look in them.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, biting her lip. Her hands had found their way down to the collar of his flannel, and the material was soft and warm and familiar in her hands, just like him. He pulled her closer to him, his arms wrapping around her more securely, and Lydia never wanted this moment to end— she would gladly stay wrapped up in Stiles Stilinski for the rest of eternity.

“I have been in love with you _quite literally_ since I met you,” he told her, and she couldn’t help the grin that blossomed on her lips. “God, Lydia, since I’ve met you— I’ve never _not_ been in love with you.”

She smiled fully at him now, before tugging him back down by the back of his neck, kissing him again. This time was less gentle, more passionate, and Lydia thought nothing had ever felt as wonderful and as right as the feeling of Stiles’s lips against hers.

When they pulled away again, Lydia’s heart pounding, her breath ragged, Stiles’s hands tight around her waist, he dropped his head to her neck, burying his nose in her hair, and her heart skipped, everything about this moment feeling absolutely perfect. The world around them faded out, unimportant— all that mattered was her and Stiles, tangled together, hearts and limbs and souls entwined.

“I cannot _believe_ ,” he murmured into her neck, kissing her jaw tenderly, “that you didn’t know.”

“I can’t believe _you_ didn’t know,” she retorted, but her tone was gentle and light, her hand carding through his hair, and Stiles hummed into her neck, his hands smoothing over her back. He pulled away, looking into her eyes again, and her heart skipped. Somehow, the emotion in them had intensified. She felt like she was staring into the sun, but was too entranced to look away.

“Well, better late than never,” he told her, raising his eyebrows before kissing her again. She melted into him, sighing into his mouth. “I love you so freaking much,” he whispered against her lips. “I always will. Don’t ever, _ever_ doubt that.”

After that moment, she never did.

 

**D: Coda**

Vaguely, as they walked through the backstage hallways, Stiles wondered if the bouquet he’d gotten was too big.

Isaac had already assured him it was, but Stiles had bought it anyway— he and Lydia were _dating_ now; he figured that he didn’t have to play it cool like he had when he’d seen her shows last season, and he wanted a bouquet worthy of how incredible she was. Granted, he’d long ago accepted the fact that material goods were never going to measure up to her, but he’d tried his best. He’d gone to a real florist this time and picked _colors_ and _types_ of flowers too, not just bought a ready made bouquet from the Star Market around the corner.

Tonight had been an important show, which you could tell by the simple fact that they had bought orchestra seat tickets ahead of time, instead of just buying rush tickets the night of, like they normally did. The first thing he’d done when the usher had shown them to their seats was rifle through the program, finding Lydia’s name printed under “second soloists” in bold. Then he’d immediately read the little pink leaflet in the middle with the casting, and his smile had never been as wide as it was when he read “Sugar Plum Fairy: Lydia Martin.”

She had been trying to play it cool around their friends all week— she was a professional, it was her job, and yes, she was excited to dance the Grand Pas, even if she only got to do it twice this season, but she wasn’t going to go jumping around the room or anything— but she had confessed to Stiles last night, after her show, curled up together in her bed, that she felt like a little kid on Christmas eve. He’d kissed her nose and smiled at her, telling her that he could not _wait_ to finally see her dance the Sugar Plum Fairy.

The show had been amazing, and it was incredible the detail you could see from Orchestra seats— Lydia sparkled physically and metaphorically when she stepped onstage, and she looked like a queen in her jeweled, embroidered tutu, a delicate tiara perched on top of her head. Stiles had stood up after the Pas de Deux Intrada, clapping as hard as he possibly could, almost stepping on the flowers in the process. Their whole group had screamed at the top of their lungs at curtain call, and Lydia, front and center for bows, caught his eye and gave him a smile that shined brighter than the stage lights above her.

She’d somehow swung getting them backstage, so the group of them were being led through the maze-like passages by a stagehand now, Allison at the front, Stiles right on her heels. Finally, the passage opened up, and they were in the wings of the stage, surrounded by the props and beautiful scenery from the show. And there, on the stage, still in her tutu and pointe shoes, talking to the Nutcracker prince and the girl who had danced Dew Drop tonight, was Lydia.

“Lydia!” Allison squealed, rushing over to her best friend, and Lydia’s face lit up at the sight of all her friends.

“You were incredible!” Allison gushed, hugging her friend tightly. Lydia smiled gratefully at her friend after releasing her, and then she was in Stiles’s arms, his bouquet pressed against her back as he buried his head in her neck, kissing her cheek.

“That was by far the best Grand Pas I have ever seen,” he told her, and she blushed, her arms still around his neck. Her eyes were shining, her cheeks rosy from dancing so much, and Stiles thought, in this moment, with her smile as wide as it was— she had never looked more beautiful to him. “I saw a _lot_ of Grand Pas last season, too, if you remember—”

“Shh,” she told him, grinning. “The principals who danced those parts are _here_ somewhere.”

“I don’t care, you were the best,” he assured her, letting her go so he could hand her the bouquet he’d brought. She grinned at him, examining the flower arrangement, before rolling up onto pointe and kissing him sweetly.

“He literally told everyone in the audience tonight that his girlfriend was dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy,” Kira told Lydia, and Lydia laughed. Stiles shrugged. So? He was crazy proud of her.

The Nutcracker Prince walked back over to her, and Lydia grinned at him, slipping out of Stiles’s arms. “Patrick, these are my friends,” she said, gesturing to them all.

“Nice to meet you,” he told them, and they all grinned back at him.

“Great job, man,” Scott said, and Patrick nodded in appreciation.

“I think it went pretty well,” Lydia said to Patrick, and her partner nodded in agreement.

“Not bad for our first Grand Pas,” he joked.

Lydia moved back to Stiles, tucking herself into his side, playing with his fingers with the hand that wasn’t holding her bouquet. Her tutu pressed up against Stiles’s leg, the stiff tulle jabbing him.

“Sorry,” she apologized, grinning at him. He shrugged.

“I don’t know how you dance with her in this thing,” he told Patrick, nodding at Lydia’s costume. “I mean, I danced the Grand Pas with her once while she was wearing _leggings_ , and that was hard enough.”

Lydia rolled her eyes dramatically, but Patrick looked confused. “You’re a dancer?” he started to ask, but Lydia cut him off.

“Ignore him. I made him help me with that tough transition _once_ , literally a year ago, and he thinks he’s a prima ballerina.”

Stiles shrugged. “Well, I could never be as good as you.”

She scoffed. “Obviously.”

Patrick walked away from the group, over to some other dancers, and Stiles craned his head around, taking in the whole stage. The crews were already putting away scenery, resetting things, sweeping up the last of the snow from Act One—it was incredible back here, like an entirely different universe. Lydia had turned back to Allison and the rest of their friends, her hand still linked with Stiles’s as she chatted with them, but in her tutu and pointe shoes, stage makeup still on, she looked so comfortable, and so at ease here; to see her standing casually on the stage, smiling, laughing— she looked like she was home.

“When do you get to dance this part again?” Kira was asking, admiring the detail on Lydia’s costume, and Stiles looked back to their group of friends.

“Next Sunday, during the matinee,” Lydia told them. “But that’s it for the season. Who knows, though, maybe next year I’ll get to do it more,” she said, her voice so hopeful. Stiles couldn’t help smiling at that. He knew that working in this industry was difficult and damaging, that years and years of criticism and rejection had taken its toll on her. He had seen first-hand how much self-doubt she had to deal with, and he _hated_ how unsure of herself this company had made her, how she could even question how incredibly talented she was. Ever since her breakdown last April, he had promised himself he would do whatever he possibly could to make sure she never felt like that again. Because he could see her, years from now, center stage, the best dancer in the company, her headshot on the “principal dancers” page, people coming to these shows not just to see the company, but to see _her_. And all he really wanted was for Lydia to see that too.

“Definitely,” Stiles said immediately, and Lydia smirked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“When did they put you in charge of casting?” she teased. Stiles shrugged.

“I just know you’re going to get more parts,” he told her. “They’d be crazy not to give you more. You’re incredible.”

He knew his opinion was almost worthless in the actual, professional ballet world— he knew next to nothing about ballet, really, and clearly he was biased— but Lydia smiled at him anyway, all soft and affectionate, her eyes full of fondness. She rolled up on pointe to briefly kiss him again, before tucking herself into his side, and Stiles heard Scott snort, saying, “Yeah, but Allison and I are the ones who are sickeningly adorable.”

“He’s sappy,” Lydia said, jerking her head towards her boyfriend. “I can’t control that.” But the smile she was giving him—Stiles felt like his heart could burst, looking at her— somehow, this amazing, stunning, talented, _spectacular_ girl loved him, and he knew, in his soul, that this was it. No one was ever going to make him as happy as Lydia did. He was going to spend the rest of time making sure that she knew how much she meant to him.

Standing there, on the Opera House stage, hundreds of crew members around and stage lights still shining down on them, Lydia tucked under his arm, his hand on her waist, her heartbeat bounding under his palm— there was nowhere in the world he would rather be than here with her. 

**Author's Note:**

> Because my notes above weren't long enough, right? 
> 
> So, a couple people have said how they've gone and looked up some of the dances after reading this, so if you're interested in the dance aspects of this fic, I've got links for y'all. (If you're just here for Stydia, feel free to disregard this. Sorry guys, I really love ballet.) Anyway [here](https://youtu.be/bksgAkiXQtM) is the entire Grand Pas from Boston Ballet's Nutcracker— the part Lydia is telling Stiles about at Christmas is the Intrada, which is the duet for the first five-ish minutes. [Here](https://instagram.com/p/BP5dFeElcK2/) is a clip of her Pas de Deux from Artifact, and [here's](https://youtu.be/uDujjV3a_N4) a quick clip of her solo in the Pas des Odalisque from Le Corsaire. Boston Ballet's and their dancers' Instagrams have some great pictures of all the costumes too— [here](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/9c/a8/3c/9ca83cd5b81d5169b3aa045603076995.jpg) [are](https://instagram.com/p/BOqwhjDjYPB/) the two different tutus Lydia wears for Sugar Plum, and [here](https://instagram.com/p/BMJoONxBHeQ/) [are](https://instagram.com/p/BMeKlYsD1VF/) her two costumes from Le Corsaire! 
> 
> Thank you again for reading; I hope you liked it!


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